


In Plain Sight

by furrylittlebantha



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furrylittlebantha/pseuds/furrylittlebantha
Summary: AU in which Luke Skywalker was raised by Padme's sister Sola Naberrie:Although he is clothed and fed, his aunt has little love for him and even less patience. Luke grows up a sharp, quiet, withdrawn child. When he is fifteen he's sent to Coruscant for an internship in the Imperial Senate. Although he tries his best to stay out of sight, Luke quickly catches the attention of both new friends and enemies alike - including Emperor Palpatine himself.Events soon spiral out of everyone's control.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine & Luke Skywalker
Comments: 19
Kudos: 102





	In Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted several years ago on another site; consolidating here for archival purposes.
> 
> For reference, note that this was written long before the Disney acquisition, way back in the days when the Expanded Universe was canon.

In Plain Sight

_“It is sometimes wisest to hide the prize in plain sight, is it not?”_

_—Allegiance, pg. 238_

Chapter One

He never cried.

It unnerved Sola more than she cared to admit, and the unease translated to a dislike that would only deepen with the years. What kind of infant was so silent, all the time? Unnatural, that’s what. _Demonspawn,_ a bitter voice whispered, and she pushed it away only half-heartedly.

He grew older, began to walk. Sola liked him less. He talked later than most, and she never became accustomed to feeling a hand on her knee, to look down into solemn blue eyes that told no secrets. Those eyes unnerved her. They weren’t _her_ eyes. They belonged solely to _him._ Like everything else about this child. Sola had been too young to remember Padmé as a baby, but surely her sister hadn’t toddled about such eerie silence. Surely she hadn’t been so…

She couldn’t think of the right word. _Sad_ brushed up against her mind, but she dismissed the thought. Babies couldn’t be sad. They were too young. 

When he was three Sola bore her first child. She held the tiny, dark-haired beauty against her breasts and felt a great swell of joy and relief. Joy, because the doctors told her that since she’d finally succeeded, the probability of others was greater now. Relief, because she truly loved this little one. She’d been so afraid…well. Perhaps Luke was a child only a mother could love. In the emotional glow of that moment, Sola promised herself that she’d always be _good_ to her nephew, and never favor her own offspring unfairly. It was the least she could do for her beloved sister.

Her husband came in, and she put everything else out of her mind.

The promise crossed her mind once more, the next day, and then she forgot it forever.

Luke was nothing like Anya, or any of the siblings that followed. Those awful, foreign looks only accentuated matters, but it went deeper than mere appearance. Her own children were bright, careless, mischievous—everything children were supposed to be. They wailed when they stubbed their toes. They laughed at bodily functions, and unfamiliar words. They threw outrageous tantrums. They played hard in the day, and slept harder in the night. They ate like refugees. They alternated between bravery and cowardice, facing down bullies for each other but climbing in her bed during thunderstorms. They thought very little, and lived in the moment.

Padmé’s son was everything they were not.

It was an unseasonably warm day, for early spring. Luke was ten years old. She stumbled across him in the library, curled up in a recession in the wall. He was reading. Again.

“What are you reading, Luke?” she asked tightly, not really wanting to know the answer. “It’s a gorgeous day outside. Why don’t you go play with your brothers and sisters?”

“It’s a book about pilots.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked up at her. _That hair needs to be cut again,_ Sola thought with some annoyance. It was always too long. Inconvenient hair was certainly not a Naberrie trait. “I want to fly someday, Mother.”

Mother. He had always called her Mother, never Mama as the others did.

“That’s hardly the occupation of a Varewé,” she said stiffly. “You’ll be a senator—as long as you show the aptitude for it.”

“What if I don’t?” His voice was lilting, hesitant. Almost afraid. She cursed him for the guilt she felt at his tone.

“You will. Don’t worry about it.” Sola swept out of the room, slightly unsettled as she so often was after speaking with him.

She had forgotten what she came to the library for.

That night, staring up at the patterns on the ceiling, she felt the first stirrings of anger towards her sister.

“Why did Padmé have to lose her senses?” she murmured softly. “Was it the strain of politics? Some bizarre, belated form of rebellion?”

Her husband only grunted and rolled over slightly.

“Palo was such a _nice_ young man,” Sola continued to herself. “If she had so much as lifted a finger…”

But she hadn’t, and there was the problem. Instead, she’d run off with the first rogue who winked at her. Well, look where all that charm had gotten her…

Dead.

Slowly, Sola’s ire evaporated. None of it was Padmé’s fault. None. That boy had taken advantage of her innocence, used her and threw her away when his unholy passions were sated. He destroyed her, like he destroyed the Republic and the Jedi Order. Ultimately, Sola supposed a wife was only one more obstacle to crush in a Sith’s path to power. 

Oh, dear…she hoped Padmé had been his wife. She didn’t really know. That Kenobi was very-closed mouthed. She hardly knew anything about her sister’s short marriage, except that it ended in a death and a birth—both extraordinarily difficult for Sola to deal with.

 _Mother,_ Luke called her. And every time, she couldn’t help thinking, _you’re not my son._

Maybe he saw it in her eyes. Maybe that’s why he was so silent all the time; because he never felt like he belonged.

“You don’t,” she said to the ceiling. “You don’t belong. You’re not a Naberrie, or a Varewé. You’re a…”

_A Skywalker._

But she couldn’t bring herself to say the name.

“You’re his son. Not hers. And you don’t belong here.”

That night, Sola came to a decision. He couldn’t stay. She couldn’t take it any longer. Family obligation or not, she bore a deeper obligation to her own children. Who was to say if Luke might not grow into something tainted? After all, the blood of…of _that man_ flowed in his veins. No. It was not worth the risk. Anyway, he’d probably be happier somewhere else. If not…

If not, at least someone else would be shivering when he turned those penetrating blue eyes on them. At least her soul would be hidden again. At least she could hug Anya without seeing Luke in her peripheral vision, a perpetual condemnation of her inability to accept her own flesh and blood. At least life would be simple again.

She slept easily for the first night in ten years.

_Five years later…_

“Are you nervous?”

“Nervous? Me? Are you kidding? This is the most exciting moment of my life!” The dark, handsome boy’s eyes belied his confidence. They were wide, almost bulging out of his head. His hands were restless, breath quick. Luke laughed quietly.

“Well, I’m nervous,” he admitted. “There’s got to be a reason for all the teasing we’ve been getting. I have a feeling…”

“You and your feelings,” the other interrupted good-naturedly. “Sure, it won’t be easy. Of course we can’t expect to be involved in any real politics—we’ll essentially be caf-toters, I expect.”

“Back-scratchers,” Luke suggested.

“Nose-pickers.”

“Shoe-lacers.”

“Butt kissers.” They laughed at that, more for the daring of the vaguely obscene word than for its actual humor.

“But Coruscant!” the dark boy continued. “The nerve-center of the Empire. The place where everything important _happens._ A little menial labor’s got to be worth it.” Luke looked out the window of the bus. His eyes took in everything and noticed none of it.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. He didn’t mention the apprehension churning in his stomach. Garmonsaw would only laugh.

Luke retreated into his private bubble of thoughts until the bus stopped and the Matron herded them out onto the lawn, single file. Passersby’s stopped and gawked at the long row of teenagers all dressed alike in spotless white tunics. Luke kept his gaze straight ahead. He was used to it.

The Imperial Palace was more than a little awing. Despite the ingrained discipline of the students, Luke heard a few dumbfounded murmurs breaking out around him. The pictures didn’t do it justice.

He’d never seen anything so _big._

“Attention, please!” The voice was harsh and unfamiliar. Not the Matron’s. Every errant voice quieted instantly, and the straggling row of awe-struck off-worlders ordered itself into a straight line of identical, perfectly postured students. Luke looked out of the corner of his eye for Gartee. He didn’t see him.

The unknown speaker stepped into their vision and began walking along the line, inspecting them. She was a government official of some kind, middle-aged, wearing a trim tunic of almost military cut. Her eyes were deep-set and dark, nose slightly crooked, jaw very square, well-kept silver hair angling sharply away from it. Luke took all this in during the brief second she stood before him. A heavy silence reigned while she made her examination. Luke’s nose itched. He clenched his teeth together and ignored it.

Finally, the official passed the last student and walked back to stand by the Matron.

“Not a bad-looking set,” she observed conversationally, just loud enough for them to hear. “But inexperienced, as always.”

“As always,” the Matron repeated with some emphasis. “Which is why they come. To gain experience, so as to better serve the Empire.”

“We shall see,” was all the middle-aged woman had to say. She turned to the students once more.

“Aides.” Her voice rang out crisply over the lawn. “Today you begin your summer of internship at the Imperial Senate. You have already been informed of your expected behavior. I trust I do not need to elaborate on the high standards of etiquette and integrity you are required to maintain. You have not been told, however, of the exact nature of your duties. That is because even the good Matron does not know. You will be assigned to a senator, and each will have unique tasks for you to perform, individual needs. You will do all that they ask, no questions asked. Are there any questions.”

She said it like a statement, and in an ominous tone.

There were no questions. 

“Very well,” the woman said after a few moments of silence. “As there are no questions, we will proceed. Once in the front entrance, you will be issued an identification tag. These tags are your life. Lose them, and you will immediately be assumed an intruder by security. Damage them, and you’ll regret you ever set foot in Coruscant…”

Her voice droned on, and Luke’s attention wandered. He craned his neck back, staring at the top of the Palace silhouetted against the blue sky.

“Hello, Palace,” he murmured inaudibly.

 _Greetings, young one,_ it seemed to whisper back. _Have you come to make me your own?_

He jerked his head down, startled, and the dark tendril of thought vanished. From several meters away, he saw the Matron frowning at him fiercely.

Luke swallowed. The day was very bright, and the memory of what just happened seemed silly, unreal. Surely his imagination was running away with him, like it often did. _You and your feelings,_ Gartee would say. After all, who ever heard of a palace that could talk?

But the feeling didn’t go away.

It only got stronger as he stepped into the massive entryway and felt the cool, modulated atmosphere swirl against his cheeks. A feeling of…anticipation, but not his own. Of recognition.

_Welcome, master._

_On the other side of the galaxy, a monstrous structure crouches in the blackness of space. Half-finished, it nevertheless reeks of power, bloodlust, of the primal desire to dominate and destroy._

_Darth Vader both hates and loves the Death Star._

_He stands on the bridge of his flag ship, watching silently as construction progresses. Piece by piece, the monster grows. He feels the resonance of the dragon within, and the repulsion of…_

_…Of the weakness within._

_The Dark Lord turns on heel._

_He feels like choking someone today._

“So,” Garmonsaw said from the bunk above. “What do you think?”

Luke rolled over and considered the question.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “What do you think?” The bed above creaked. Garmonsaw’s head appeared, hanging upside down.

“I think… _wizard,_ ” the other boy said, and grinned.

Luke smiled back. “The tour of the Senate Hall was incredible,” he agreed.

“Wizard,” Garmonsaw repeated. “Wizard awesome.” His head disappeared. Luke was quiet. There was so much he wanted to say, and he wasn’t sure how to put it into words.

“Gartee?” he said at last. A light snore answered him. Too late.

Perhaps the Moff’s son had the right idea, Luke reflected. They would need all their rest for tomorrow. He closed his eyes.

Sleep was a long time coming.

Chapter 2

The Countess Claria was a perfect lady. Gracious, poised, intelligent, she always acted with flawless etiquette and still managed to put one at ease. Her appearance was never anything but correct, every hair in place, every shoulder-sculp straight. Her voice was mild and her posture exquisite.

Mara Jade was heartily sick of Countess Claria.

_You must learn to blend into every surrounding,_ her Master said. _There must be no situation in which you are out of place._ And so a good deal of Mara’s training was spent learning to infiltrate almost any situation without drawing attention, from the dregs of the galaxy to its highest echelons. By now, she was equally skilled at both.

But she much preferred the dregs.

At least she could indulge in a bit of violence when a man bothered her in cantina. As the Countess, however…

“Something amusing, my dear?”

Mara quickly smoothed the grin into a polite and somewhat coy smile. _Why, nothing at all,_ she wanted to say. _Just envisioning what your face would look like if I reshaped it a little._

“Why, nothing at all,” she said instead. “Just envisioning what these gardens are like in early spring.”

Her escort smiled back—leered, more like it—and tucked her arm closer to him.

“Magnificent,” he assured her pompously. “The young, fresh blooms are the most delectable of all.” Definitely a leer now.

“Then I must certainly return next year,” she said lightly, and casually attempted to remove her arm from his grasp. He only gripped it a little tighter. With a swiftly hidden grimace, Mara relaxed again. There was no way she’d get away without making a scene.

“Yes, you must,” the senator repeated. “And I would be more than delighted to act as your guide.”

_Oh, he’s a subtle one,_ Mara snorted inwardly. His other hand draped around her waist, fleshy fingers caressing the exposed skin of her back. She flinched and did her best to look charmed as goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. _Why exactly did I choose the backless dress…?_

“Like them younger all the time, do you, Skrefin?”

Mara looked up. She hadn’t even noticed the woman approaching.

“Senator Melgida,” her escort growled, and released her somewhat reluctantly. As fast as was proper, she sidled several feet out of range. He didn’t notice, intent on glaring at the newcomer. “I thought you’d left.”

“Obviously not.” The tall, rangy woman cast an appraising glance over Mara. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced.” Mara waited long enough to give Skrefin an opening, but he was sulking.

“Countess Claria.” She dropped into a low curtsey, eyes lowered. 

“Mmm.” Mara could feel the senator’s eyes on her. “I see. Well, Countess Claria, I hope it will not pain you over-much to take leave of the good senator. There is a small task that I require assistance in.”

“Not at all,” Mara replied, extra-graciously.

“Now, wait just a second…”

“Skrefin.” The woman fixed Skrefin with a hard-eyed stare. “Behave.” He swallowed, threw her a distinctly nasty look, then bowed deeply to Mara. She noticed he spent a disproportionate time of the bow at her chest-level.

“Countess; Senator.” The first name dripped with honey; the second, with barely controlled rage. He huffed away.

Mara watched him go, and could not stop the small sigh of relief that escaped her.

“What do you think of Skrefin?”

She started, not so much at the content of the question as its bluntness.

“He is…an enthusiastic gentleman.”

“Hogwash.” The woman leaned in, close enough for Mara to smell her brisk, woody scent. She lowered her voice. “The man’s a public menace. Lecherous old fart. And an embezzler, to boot. Did you notice the lining on his cape?”

“L’sat’SA brocade,” Mara replied unthinkingly. “But it was sub par black-market, well within his price range.”

“Perhaps not an embezzler then. But still a fart. Now, tell me, Countess, how it is that you recognized obscure, contraband brocade on sight, mmm? Do much smuggling on the side of your noble duties?”

_Damn._

“Oh, don’t look so flustered. I like you, Countess. I like you a lot. I certainly don’t hold it against you if you trip up when I want you to. Just be more careful in the future.” The woman winked. Mara tried very hard to start breathing again. She turned away, glad for the heat as an excuse for her flushed face.

Glad that they were outside, that she had room to maneuver if this person proved to be an enemy.

“By the way, I am Senator Boroma Twansa Melgida. You may call me Twansa. Walk with me, Countess Claria.” She said the name with a slight twist of emphasis and a twinkle in her hard black eyes. Numbly, Mara obeyed.

It really was uncomfortably warm for early summer. The would-be Hand swiped a hand across her damp neck and attempted to regain her crumbling composure. 

“May I ask what the task you mentioned consists of?” she inquired politely. Melgida laughed, cropped hair falling into her eyes.

“Already done: help me irritate Skrefin. Now we’re just being sociable. Walk me to my office and I’ll call us even.”

Mara could have declined.

She could have walked away right then.

She could have _run_.

She could have done anything but what she did, anything but nod and follow.

But Mara didn’t.

And it was the beginning of the end.

They threaded their way through the lawn, down the labyrinth of corridors in the Palace, to an unimposing office tucked in a side wing. The hallway outside was empty and very quiet.

“Thanks,” Melgida said, and shook Mara’s hand in an iron grasp. “I’d invite you in, but I have a brat to interview.” Mara lifted an eyebrow.

“A friend of Skrefin’s?”

The senator laughed. “No. Well, could be, actually. You remember that Old Fart asked why I’m still on Coruscant. The Senate’s not in session right now, see. Twice a year there’s a month-long recess—but you must know this already.”

“A rotating recess, correct? It never falls on the same set of months as the last year.”

“Exactly. Unfortunately, the DiploY is regular as a pendulum.”

“I’m sorry; I’m not familiar with…”

“Mmm.” Melgida tapped her chin lightly. “I forgot. You’re not all-knowing.” She checked her chronos, seemed to consider. “…Oh, he can wait. DiploY, Diplomacy Youth Corps, is a government program that coordinates with Imperial diplomacy schools for activities like internships and workshops. Every summer they send us a fresh batch of kids. We—the senators—can volunteer to sponsor a student, and he or she acts as a temporary aide for the senator. It just so happens that this year, the senator pool is fairly sparse. Everyone’s home until the new session begins.” 

Mara considered the implications of that information.

“So…you either don’t have a home or you consider it worth your while to spend vacation shepherding a “brat,” as you term them.” For a moment, the senator’s face went still. Then she smiled, a flash of white teeth against dark skin.

“Sharp, Countess. Very sharp. But don’t expect any more answers from me. If you’re as quick as all that, you can ferret out my secrets on your own—and I’ve no doubt you will, now that I’ve tantalized your interest. I will say this: we are neither of us what we pretend to be. But then, much is hidden in this Empire, is it not?”

Another wide smile; a swish of robes, a toss of cropped hair, the click of a door, echoing with finality. Mara stood alone in the corridor.

She would find out more about this Twansa Melgida. Not because she had been dared. Not even because the woman was so heartily different than any government official she’d ever met.

Because…Twansa Melgida held a promise in her eyes. Mara was too alert not to read it, deep in those ebony pupils.

 _I will show you something,_ Twansa had told her. _I will open your eyes and change your world._

And quite frankly, Mara Jade was curious.

Luke always cut his meat into an array of small cubes before eating. It was poor manners, and he’d gotten in goodness-knows how much trouble for it, first from Mother, then from the Matrons. But he didn’t really care. This was how he ate his meat. After a while, the sheer persistence of his wordless defiance wore his guardians down.

He found that trick useful in getting his way but didn’t employ it much. Even though he had attended the Imperial Institute of Diplomacy for five years now, something deep inside still shuddered in revulsion when he practiced manipulation. The irony was that he was half-way good at it. Luke didn’t speak often, but when he did, people listened. He came up with good ideas, expressed them with quiet confidence, and possessed a disconcerting knack for finding others’ weaknesses—both in their arguments, and in their characters. When forced, he could exploit those weaknesses. When forced, Luke could win.

It kind of scared him. That’s why he mostly listened, and let others lead; that’s why the teachers called him a compliant child and smiled sweetly as he walked by. Then he could forget the strange power he felt sometimes, simmering deep down in his bones.

Unfortunately, there were knobby bits in Luke’s personality, stubborn patches that wouldn’t budge. How he ate his meat was one of those patches.

Luke forked in mouthful. And chewed. And tried to ignore the power in his bones…

“Stars, Varewé, it’s not that bad. Sure, we’ve all had better nerf-steaks—we’re the privileged! This is okay stuff, though—so why the face?”

He swallowed. “Nothing. It’s fine. Hey, how’d your interview go?”

Garmonsaw made a face. “Eh, all right. She’s like ninety years old, and I’m pretty sure she spat on me through her false teeth about a dozen times.”

“Sick.”

“Yeah. Anyways, I’m hoping Senator Griselr is senile—means less pointless errands in the name of education. How did yours go?”

Luke shrugged, poking at his meat. Gartee was right; the food wasn’t all that bad. At any rate, this was his last meal in the DiploY wing. Tonight he’d be quartered with Senator Melgida’s staff.

“Weird,” he replied around a mouthful. “She didn’t ask me any of the questions I was expecting. Nothing about my marks, experience, recognitions, family connections—none of that. Just…random stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like…I don’t know. What I thought about these new policies. What I like to do in my free time. What I read for fun…I don’t know.”

“Random,” Gartee agreed, eyes wandering.

Luke followed his gaze. “Who are you looking for?”

To his surprise, the Moff’s son blushed.

“Nobody,” he mumbled. “Hey, let’s get out of here. We have exactly one free afternoon before a summer of slavery.”

“Sure.” Luke scanned the room for the Matron. “It’s all clear. Come on.” He scooted his chair out from the table. “And, uh, Gartee? We’ll talk about this “Nobody” later.”

The other boy muttered something incoherent and sauntered ahead with a painfully nonchalant expression on his face. Luke rolled his eyes. Garmonsaw Salaster Fortee III might be his best friend, but other than the fact that they were both Governors’ sons, they hardly had anything in common. Gartee was brash, adventurous, hot-headed, darkly handsome, into sports and girls and everything that went along. Luke…wasn’t. In another world, he wondered if things would have been different. No matter how half-baked Garmonsaw’s latest scheme, he always went along, always enjoyed the spark of adrenalin even as he played the voice of reason. He wondered if given the chance, he might crave adventure.

But he didn’t.

There were other things to crave. 

Luke suppressed the familiar ache with practiced ease and followed Garmonsaw out of the cafeteria.

He had left his meat behind, unfinished. It sat there, a small pile of neat cubes centered on the tray, until a maid came by and cleared the table.

_The Force is a storm around Emperor Palpatine. His meditations are never restful, but then, he does not meditate to refresh himself._

_He meditates to empower himself. And power hurts._

_His chambers are quiet, still, windows open to the gentle breeze. If someone came in, they would see only see an unremarkable old man hunched by a window. That someone would be blind. Palpatine is not by the window. The essence of who he is balances on a nexus created by his own will, cackling as a massive vortex of energy howls about him. The ground trembles; lightning crackles. He reaches out gnarled claws and grabs the ropes of white energy, face contorted. The laughter becomes a scream. His mouth opens in a snarl, and blood drips out from the corners. The power is killing him._

_But he does not drop the lightning. He cannot help it. He will die without it, and will die because of it. They are alike, Palpatine and the dark side, ravenous for each other and for the entire galaxy. Years now he has lived in the storm, a violent symbiotic existence, neither winning the struggle for dominance. But now the Emperor falters. He has one great weakness the dark side does not; flesh. A body that can be broken. A soul that will scatter without a physical anchor. He is losing. He knows it. Behind the yellow in his eyes, a dull red light glows. The red cast deepens every day. It is the color of a dying star._

_Palpatine pulls the lightning in and laughs and screams until his throat is raw._

Chapter 3

“You look good, kid.”

Luke brushed self-consciously at his slicked-back hair.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Senator…”

“Kid. You look great. What else matters? I promise you, you’ll do fine up there. More than fine.” She flashed him a strange, almost predatory grin. “You’ll do brilliant.” The senator swished ahead of him then, and Luke had to trot to keep pace.

Brilliant, she said. How did she know? He’d been her intern for only two weeks now, and try as he might, Luke couldn’t recall a single incident that would have given her the impression that…that…

Oh, shavit. “How” wasn’t the only question he harbored about Twansa Melgida. Why me and who is she and what the heck have I gotten myself into figured pretty prominently, too. A few of the questions had been answered. Between the endless busywork she gave him (all observed, he was sure) and the few, cryptic conversations they shared, he had found opportunity to do some observation of his own. The problem was, every answer invariably sprouted a dozen more questions.

She wanted him for something, that was for sure. That first week had been the test. No, it was even earlier—the interview. The path of her questioning seemed random to him then, but later, he realized it was like the puzzles he used to work on rainy days. Nothing was disordered or purposeless when you had the picture of how things were going to turn out. Melgida was running him through a maze in that interview, watching to see if he fit her pattern.

And apparently, he did. No words had been exchanged, but Luke felt her hard black eyes on him throughout the day, evaluating, calculating. There were more tests—convenient opportunities to steal a petty valuable, slip-ups by other staff members he could have used to further himself by blackmail or betrayal. There were hastily sealed envelopes he could have opened, half-opened doors he could have stood by, whispered conversations, hints of intrigue he could have filed away for future leverage. He did, of course; it would have been stupid not to. But he never actually used them, or gave any indication of desire in that direction. Why would he? Sometimes, in the privacy of his quarters, he laughed at the whole thing. All this dancing around and hush-hush complexity, just for him. Fifteen-year old Luke Varewé, disfavored son of sub-sector governors.

Then one day, the tests stopped. When he felt the black eyes on him, they no longer evaluated, but instead reveled in a kind of grim glee. She began to speak to him more often, drop smiles and passing touches on the shoulder that smacked of the friendly. He recalled one conversation in particular. ,,

_The balcony was cool and blue in the rising starlight. Luke wore a tailored, fitted outfit that made him feel uncomfortable—especially when the fourth girl in a row batted her eyelashes at him. Well, it wasn’t his fault. The clothes had been chosen for him, like everything else in this new life._

_He stood several meters from where Senator Melgida held her whispered conference, a respectful distance, but still near enough to hear her if she summoned. He still wasn’t quite sure why he was here. Hardly any staff attended this function, and as far as he could tell, he was the only intern. The senator’s behavior puzzled him further. She had danced just once, with a short, bearded man in military garb. Neither looked like they were having much fun. After, the military man had left immediately, whereupon Senator Melgida retreated to this balcony and proceeded to talk quietly and at length with three or four knots of elegantly-clad party-goers._

_Finally, this last group went on their way. Luke hoped she was ready to go. His legs were tired, and he was thirsty. A punch bowl on the other side of the ballroom had been calling his name for the last hour. To his disappointment, she drifted further out on the balcony, rested against it and stared out beyond the twinkling city below. Luke tried to gauge her inattention, wondered if he could make it to the punch bowl and back before she woke up…_

_“Varewé.” He jumped slightly, startled and a little guilty. Her gaze was still straight ahead, and her voice distant. But there was no mistaking the harsh purpose in it. He made his way to her in a few quick, long steps._

_“Yes, Senator?” A cold breeze furled up from below. He shivered. She didn’t flinch. In that moment, Melgida looked almost unearthly, with the wind billowing up her hair, her face motionless, her obsidian eyes glistening weirdly in the moonlight. He took a small step backwards._

_“Yes. Young Varewé. So the hopes of the many rest in the few, and the small. Are you ready, Varewé? Can you shoulder the burden with the rest of us? It does not matter. I know how you will answer—I know you will try, oh, yes, foolish, young, small hero. You will try. I have seen it in your eyes. Are you the one they spoke of? Mayhap not—and if so, then the other child certainly will do. I can break her. I know it. But you, Varewé. You are an unknown factor. There is instability in you, as well as greatness. Gods help us if others play upon you before we seal you ours. He’s wrong, I know it. You’re worth the risk. You will prove yourself to him, child of destiny. You must, if you wish to live. You must prove that the blood of the Sk—”_

_She broke off and turned on him, examining his face carefully. “Mmm. Sorry, kid. I lost it for a moment there.” The dreamlike quality had vanished from her voice, replaced by brittle alertness. Luke suddenly felt wary._

_“Pardon my rambling, and I hope you don’t mind if I…” she touched a hand to his forehead, and everything went black._

_He woke later, in his bed and with a pounding headache. Large portions of the evening were fuzzy; he had the notion that he wasn’t supposed to remember anything at all. But tenaciously, he dug at the blankness until it all came back, replayed the words she spoke to him again and again._

_They didn’t make any more sense than they had the first time._

The next day, the senator acted like nothing had happened. He decided to play along. For a while, things seemed like they were dying down. A routine settled in, paperwork and drab bustle and late nights followed by early mornings. Luke began to be bored. He missed Garmonsaw.

Then this. 

“Senator,” he tried again, putting on an extra burst of speed until he was alongside of her, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand why you nominated me.” She halted abruptly. Luke’s forward momentum kept him going a few steps before he skidded to a stop and circled back around. The senator stood with her arms crossed, observing him narrowly.

“Self-doubt kills, Varewé. Don’t forget that tonight.”

“But Senator…” The frustration curled into his tone before he could reign it in. “I have no clue _why_ I’m going to be up there in the first place.” She smirked, flipping cropped hair out of her eyes.

“Because whether you realize it or not, you’re the best, and we—I need you to start demonstrating that publicly. Just wait. After tonight, if—when—you do well…oh, just wait.” She started walking again, even faster than before. Involuntarily, Luke’s hands clenched into fists. Mysteries. He was so sick of them.

_Lying is a fine tool in the hands of a ruler, but not when he lies to himself._

Luke sucked in his breath sharply. “You again,” he accused, soft enough that Senator Melgida would not hear.

_Yes._

“What do you want?”

_To bend to your will._

He sighed. “Talk straight, palace, or whatever you are. That’s my will.”

_Look into yourself, young master. Find the weakness you bear and defeat it utterly. Only then can you take your rightful place within me._

“And what weakness is that?”

_Such brute directness. But subtlety will come with time. This truth I offer you, as a token of fealty. You are angry with this woman not because of a mystery withheld, but because of love withheld. You fear tonight because you fear to disappoint her. Do not fear, master. More power lies in you than you know. Her love is irrelevant, however. The power is everything._

“Go away,” Luke said. The senator cast a swift, confused look over her shoulder. He shrugged apologetically, and subvocalized between clenched, smiling teeth. “ _Leave me alone._ ”

Mocking laughter floated around him.

_Never, master. Never again. Tonight all their plans come undone. I have made it so…_

Luke decided that ignoring It might be the best option. That had worked once or twice in the past. To his relief, within a few moments his mind was alone, and he began to breath freely again.

But only for a moment.

They had arrived.

Two men in sleek uniforms dashed up, grabbed him by the arms and bundled him into a small room. “You’re late,” one of them huffed to the senator.

“My apologies,” she said in a very unapologetic tone. He glared at her, and looked Luke up and down.

“So. You’re the one filling in for Gharien kid. Ever debated on the galactic level before?”

Mutely, Luke shook his head. The man peered at him suspiciously.

“Then what—? How about Oversector? No? Regional? Planetary? Kid, have you ever participated in a formal debate _at all?_ No? Dammit, Melgida. What are you playing at?”

“Shut up and get him out there,” she snapped. “Like you said, we’re late.” He fired off a few colorful speculations on the senator’s maternal genealogy, ran a lint-roller over Luke’s tunic, and clapped twice. A door slid open, spilling in sharp, bright light and a lot of noise. Luke blinked, raised a hand to shield his face, felt himself being hustled forward. 

The next thing he knew, he was all alone on a stage, red dots swimming before his eyes where the light blinded him. No…not alone, he realized as his vision adjusted. A tall, willowy blonde with cool grey eyes stood behind a podium several meters away.

And just below the stage, there was a very large crowd. All staring directly at him

Luke swallowed and walked unsteadily to the empty podium that appeared to be for him. Distantly, he heard their names announced, but failed to catch the girl’s. Some more stuff was said. Then, all lights in the hall darkened except for two spotlights—one of them precisely on his face.

_How do I get into these things?_ he wondered. _Laugh all you want, Gartee. I have an extremely bad feeling about this._

And then, suddenly, the fear evaporated. His back straightened of its own accord. His mind cleared; no, more than cleared. Every thought was crisply outlined, frozen, clear, like deadly crystals. A strange confidence shot up his spine.

Luke laughed shortly and adjusted the microphone.

So he could do this. So he had no idea why. So what was new? The blonde launched into her opening speech. He leaned forward slightly.

Let the games begin.

_In a small hut on the other side of the galaxy, an old man sits bolt upright, sweat pouring down his face_

_“No…” he gasps. “They were not nightmares, then. Sola has failed us.”_

_On an arrow-shaped vessel of war, a man sleeps who is neither dead nor truly alive, neither good nor wholly bad, neither light nor dark, neither man nor machine. He also feels the ripple. In the hyperbaric chamber, he raises a scarred head and wonders._

_Very close to the ripple’s origin, a third man meditates in the center of a storm. The roaring wind carries him a suggestion hidden in its ravaging. He catches it, holds it in his palms, turns it over and over, thinking._

_A bloody smile spreads across his face._

Chapter Four

The applause was thunderous for the dark horse victor. Mara joined in reluctantly. He had done well, and deserved to win. His opponent—she forgot her name—was very good, too, and spoke with more polish. It was clear that she had expected to demolish this unknown, picked out of the blue to replace an ill finalist. Mara couldn’t see well from the back of the room, but the girl’s sense was comfortably smug and relaxed.

It was literally seconds before that relaxation deteriorated. Minutes before the smugness began to fade, and not long at all when she was far from comfortable.

The girl was good, but the boy was brilliant.

It was almost painful to watch him pick apart her arguments, dangle the flawed pieces before the audience, then smoothly reconstruct them into a weapon of his own to fling at her. Mara watched him carefully the whole time. From the first moment, his posture and voice were bristling with power, a strange mixture of unbridled virility and refined control. There was no hesitation, no stumbling, no stalling and scrambling for a rebuttal. Only an unbroken stream of manipulation—a hunt, in which the girl was the prey. Again and again he lured her with falsely weak positions, maneuvered her, lulled her to a sense of safety, and moved in swiftly and triumphantly for the kill. Always on the offensive. Never giving her a chance to do anything but block and recover.

The debate was not long.

She was simply no match.

Mara folded her hands together after the few perfunctory claps and scanned the room for Varewé’s sponsor. He should be on the front row, positioned just below and to the right of the champion’s podium…

Oh.

Not a he. A she. _That_ she. Mara pushed aside the heavy velvet of the box’s curtains and started moving towards the stage.

In a way, it was not surprising. She had expected to cross paths with Twansa Melgida again, and she had expected the encounter to be interesting. Considering the circumstances, she had probably been right.

Varewé leapt down to speak with the senator, looking shy and proud. Melgida looked…

Mara couldn’t place the expression. It reminded her a little of the Emperor’s face when she pleased him, but fiercer, more compassionate, and more conflicted; exhilarated but frightened at the same time.

Yes. The encounter was going to be very interesting.

By the time she shouldered her way through the crowd, Melgida was engaged in another conversation. She paused briefly when Mara came close, caught her gaze.

“Shirking your duties, tonight, are you Countess? I’d think your social calendar would be packed on such a fine evening.”

“My night off,” Mara shot back. The senator grinned.

“How convenient for us, then. Varewé! Varewé, meet Countess Claria, a very dear, ah, _acquaintance_ of mine. Don’t just stand there and look pretty; talk to her, boy!” With an irritated wave, she returned to her conversation. Mara shrugged and took stock of Luke Varewé. He was slightly shorter than she, neither thin nor stout, and had a way of holding himself that suggested shyness. But how could he be, after tonight? Another mystery orbiting Senator Melgida.

“So, you’re the one,” she commented. He cocked his head quizzically.

“The one?”

“The one she picked for her grand scheme.”

“Oh. That scheme.” His tone did not change. Mara raised an eyebrow.

“And do you know what it is yet?”

“Not quite. You?”

“I’m working on it.” 

“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.” He caught her eye, a small smile on his face. She hesitated, then let out the breath she’d been holding and laughed quietly.

“Do you ever feel like a dejarik piece around here?”

His smile turned wry. “All the time.”

Mara decided she liked that smile. And his eyes. They were a nice color. And his chin…

“I…”

It hit her with the force of a hurricane, hungry and blazing with energy. Usually, Palpatine’s presence was warm to her mind, gentle.

There was nothing gentle about his approach tonight.

Her Master drew near, and Mara Jade was afraid. For the first time in her life.

“Countess?”

Vaguely, she heard Varewé’s voice, noted the concern in his blue eyes. But she had no attention to spare.

_Master,_ she sent hesitantly. No response. She tried again. _Have you need of me?_

Mara caught the fleeting impression that he heard, but that his own attention was fully occupied. Almost as an afterthought, the burning touch of his mind withdrew. The chaotic energies contracted, until she could no longer distinguish his consciousness from any other in the Palace.

As a result, she heard, rather than felt, Emperor Palpatine enter the debate hall. A wave of silence flowed outwards from the doors, fear washing out on the crest so strongly that Mara could taste it. More fear than normal, in fact. Perhaps concentrated in one person…

Her head turned slightly in the direction the Force indicated.

Twansa Melgida met her eyes, and two quick tears raced down her dark cheeks. Someone stumbled into Mara, clumsy in their haste to reach an exit. When she regained her balance and looked again, the tall woman had vanished. Luke Varewé stood alone at the foot of the stage.

The crowd parted to let a lone figure through.

Luke’s heart stopped.

 _Twansa…_ he thought dimly.

 _Goodbye, kid,_ a voice echoed. _I hoped…_

As if a curtain had dropped around his mind, the voice broke off. He was alone, now. Underneath the pounding fear, this one thought shone in unyielding, brilliant truth.

He was alone.

His mind flashed back to the many, many times he had stood on the outskirts of his sibling’s games, of a romp in front of the fireplace, of pranks, of…of the Varewé family. He saw Mother’s face, the way her eyes tightened when she saw him, the way her lips pulled back when she kissed him to sleep. He saw himself five years ago, a small, lonely figure on the pavement as the bus pulled away under pouring rain. He remembered the way the other students shrank from him, instinctive fear and distrust in their eyes.

He remembered his life. He remembered who he was, then and now.

A loner. Alone.

But he was also strong. He had taken care of himself before; he would take care of himself now. He would win, like he knew he could.

_So certain, young master?_

He ignored the teasing voice and stepped forward, lifting his chin.

Apparently, the ruler of the galaxy wished to speak with him. 

_Tattooine is a perilous place in the night. Its deserts, even more so. Many dangers lurk in the long cobalt shadows of the dunes._

_The old man does not care. Not tonight._

_He walks the worn trial, head bowed, staff clutched in both hands, feet making soft thwumps in the sand as he walks on, one foot in front of the other. He falters, every now and then, stumbles, even when the ground is smooth. Once, his hood falls back, and moonlight floods his craggy features._

_They are pallid, and tear-tracked, and lines furrow where no lines lay before._

_He draws the hood around himself and continues on his way._

_The small house is still; the lights are out. He collapses against the door and knocks weakly with his staff. There is silence, then a rustling. The door cracks open. A woman peers out through the opening, hair falling in wisps about her face. Her eyes widen from fear to another kind of fear._

_“Obi-Wan,” she whispers. “What has happened?” He makes a choking, guttural sound in the back of his throat, almost but not quite a sob._

_“Come indoors, Obi-Wan.”_

_“Bail,” he says hoarsely. “My communication systems are down, and he should know…Dear Force, preserve the child.”_

_“What’s happened?” the woman snaps, fear sharpening her voice. “Master Kenobi, you must tell me what happened.”_

_He lurches to his feet, clings to the doorframe, pushes past her._

_“Oh, Beru. At least we still have little Leia.”_

“I wish to offer my congratulations on your victory, boy. A most impressive display. Do you engage in these competitions often?”

Luke licked his lips. His throat was oddly thick.

“I—that is—this is my first time.” He could not see the Emperor’s face under the cowl, but Luke thought he detected a faint gleam, just for an instant.

Weird.

“More impressive yet, then. What is your name?” The Emperor drew nearer, and the air between them crackled with the movement. Luke jumped slightly. He cast a quick glance about. No one else seemed to have noticed…

No one, that is, but the Countess Claria.

“Luke Varewé, first son of Nubian sub-Governor Teswin Varewé,” he replied, leaning into the formal bow he’d been taught. He wondered abstractedly if it was formal enough.

“Indeed. And you have come to my Palace as an apprentice, have you not?” Luke swallowed again, hard. Something about that choice of terminology made him feel distinctly uneasy.

“Yes, as an intern,” he answered. “Senator Melgida is sponsoring me.”

Emperor Palpatine laughed at that. A few people scattered about the room joined in, uncertainly and very briefly. The old man leaned closer. Luke caught the smell of rot and a flash of red from under the cowl.

“I am sure she will not object to a change of plans, do you, boy?”

“N-no, your highness.”

“Good.” Lingering on the syllable, the Emperor drew away. “Good. Follow me, young Varewé.” He turned to leave.

Luke watched him for a moment before moving. _Follow me._ He had no choice in the matter. And yet, as he hurried to catch up with the flowing black robes, he wondered just what it was he was following, and where he would find himself at the end.

_Your destiny, of course. But you will not always be following. Someday, you will lead the destinies of all…_

“No, I won’t,” Luke muttered tiredly.

He had not bothered to whisper.

Ahead of him, Emperor Palpatine smiled for the second time that day.

_So certain, young master?_

_So certain?_

Chapter Five

Coruscant was more than the political and military center of civilization, more even than the cultural axis, more than a glittering hub of power and wealth. It was also the center through which information of all kinds flowed, crisscrossing and weaving out on its path through the galaxy. In that respect, the old saying was true. All paths _did_ lead to Coruscant. If the Imperial Center was the heart of civilization, then the Palace was the heart of the Imperial Center—and the Archives were the heart of the Palace.

Hushed, towering, the Palace Archives were almost as impressive as the building itself. Luke perched at a computer terminal high on a landing, pale morning sun pouring onto his shoulders from a skylight. Earlier, when he looked over the railing, he felt as if he stood on the rim of cylinder built out of data.

If only the data were better organized.

“Varewé!”

Luke closed his search and looked up.

“Hey Gartee. Where’ve you been lately?”

“Pardon me; that’s the wrong question, buddy. Where’ve _you_ been?” The taller boy shook his head, a bewildered smile on his face. “So you’re working directly with the Emperor now. Wow. That’s all I can say. Not gonna lie, Varewé, talk about jumping on the fast track! What did you do, make a deal with the devil?”

“Of course not,” Luke snorted. “To be honest, I have no idea why this happened.” He lowered his voice as a nearby staffer shot them a dirty look. “It just…did.”

Garmonsaw folded his arms and stared down knowingly. “I guess your big win at the debate finals had nothing to do with it, right?”

Luke shrugged, wincing inwardly. He still didn’t like thinking about that night.

“I’m sure the Emperor had his reasons. Maybe the debate factored in, I don’t know.”

The Moff’s son winked and flopped into the terminal next to him.

“Cagey already, huh? Okay, so, what’s this guy like? Can you tell me that much? Does he put on the freaky bathrobe one arm at a time? Can he hold spicy food? Is that one rumor about the mynocks and the Devoranian prostitute true? Can—”

“Gartee,” Luke cut in. “Read my lips: _I don’t know._ Gosh, it’s been all of two weeks! I don’t even see the Emperor very often. He goes off and does Emperor stuff, and I run errands for one of his assistants. Like now.” He waved a hand at the screen. “I’m gathering a list of the different tariffs on delfirium over a five year span so someone can calculate the variation and create a model. It’s not like I’m Palpatine’s best friend or something.”

“Oh. Okay.” Garmonsaw sighed. “Sounds like what I do. The whole senility thing turned out to be an act. Senator Griselr is sharp as a vibroblade, and a sadistic old chicken to boot. Right now I’m reorganizing the health records of her staff so the insurance people can’t screw her again.”

“Sounds exciting, all right.” Luke pulled his search engine back up. “Where are you, Corellia… _aha_.”

“Don’t mumble,” Gartee squeaked, pitching his voice several octaves up in mimicry of the Matron. “A diplomat’s most potent tool is his diction. Many a great political battle has been lost through…”

“…Sloppy pronunciation and incorrect diction. Whatever. I’m pretty sure the senator she always makes an example of is that Gungan, Binks, and they talk like that normally.” 

Garmonsaw squinted at his terminal and typed rapidly for a few moments.

“Huh…don’t Gungans come from your homeplanet, Luke?”

“Yeah.” He shuddered. “Unfortunately. One year I got sick when we were in Gungan territory…oh boy, that concoction they gave me was…” He shuddered again—and a thought struck him. “Hey, you’ve got the master code to the health records, don’t you?”

“What of it?”

Luke grinned. “Still any good at hacking?” 

Gartee looked over at him, cocked an eyebrow. “I might be. Thinking of stealing Senator Griselr’s identity?” Luke’s terminal pinged, and he quickly sorted the results by date and filed them away. He swung his chair around sideways.

“Actually, it’s my allergy shot. I only had a reaction _once,_ in that swamp, and now I have to take these dumb shots every six weeks. But I was thinking, if nobody ever saw it on my record…”

Gartee rolled his eyes and leaned over the keypad.

“Fine. I’ll do it. What are friends for and all that. But if I get in trouble, be prepared to put in a good word with your Friend in High Places…” he trailed off, brow furrowing. Minutes ticked by, the silence punctuated only by tapping and a few beeps.

Luke frowned. “Something wrong?” 

“Varewé.” Garmonsaw’s voice was troubled. “I can’t do this.”

“A conscience attack?”

“No, I literally _can’t_ alter your files. Somebody already has...and then locked them down.”

Luke sat back, stunned. Who would tamper with his health records? And why?

“What’s changed?” he asked urgently.

“Stang, how should I know? Wait. There.” The other boy pushed away the keypad in frustration. “This is really weird, Varewé. I’ve never seen anything like it. Who the heck…”

“Gungans,” Luke joked weakly. “Really embarrassed Gungans.”

“Luke.” Garmonsaw fixed him with a quizzical gaze. “They didn’t mess with the medical part. But your genetic information…all gone.

“As of now, _you don’t have parents_.”

Later, Luke walked Garmonsaw back to Griselr’s offices. He leaned back against the doorway and sighed. “It’s been a weird summer, Gartee. I almost wish I hadn’t come to Coruscant.” The tall boy patted him on the shoulder roughly.

“Cheer up. It’s not all bad. Look who’s coming, for instance.”

Luke looked, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He shrunk deeper into the doorway.

Senator Twansa Melgida swept by, gesturing animatedly to the red-haired girl beside her. Countess Claria walked with her arms folded and brow furrowed in concentration. Neither of them glanced at him.

“She’s been ignoring me,” he whispered to Gartee unhappily. “I think she’s mad that I…”

“Forget that old broad,” Garmonsaw hissed. “ _Her._ Check out _her._ ”

“The Countess?”

“You know her? Gods, I’m jealous.” He gave a low whistle when they passed out of sight. “That’s one hot redhead.”

“Not a redhead,” Luke corrected absently. He was still staring at the place Melgida had been.

“What?” Garmonsaw shook the dazed glow from his eyes.

“Red-gold,” Luke repeated. He shoved his hands in his pockets, stood up. “Her hair isn’t red, that’s all. There’s some gold in it. Hey, quit that. Stop it, Gartee.”

The other boy held up his hands in defense. “I didn’t say anything!”

“Yes you did. I heard you. You said, _he’s got it bad._ ”

“No, I didn’t, Luke,” Gartee said quietly.

“But I distinctly—”

 _“No, I didn’t, Luke,”_ he repeated, even softer. “…I thought it.”

Minutes ticked by. Luke felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck, into his collar. He shifted from foot to foot. Garmonsaw continued to stare as if Luke were a particularly gruesome bug.

“Look,” he said at last. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe you just _thought_ you thought it.”

“Maybe.” Gartee spoke without much conviction, but at least he grinned while he said it. “But seriously. _Red-gold._ Where I come from, they call that _strawberry blonde._ ”

They bantered back and forth for a few minutes before Luke found an excuse to leave. He made his way out of the corridor quickly, relieved to put distance between himself and Garmonsaw Fortee III.

_The old man doubles over as a snaking band of power rams against his mind. How much longer can he hold it in? How long can his psyche stand against the onslaught of chaos? He does not care to know the answer. He never has. He has always hoped for another way._

_And now there is one._

_Wheezing, he pulls himself upright and steps out of the storm._

_It is time._

_The hour of triumph is at hand._

The head assistant was waiting when Luke returned to the Emperor’s wing.

“I’ve got the tariffs,” he began.

She grabbed the datapad and tossed it on the desk, face flushed. “Never mind that, Varewé. Listen, the Emperor wants to meet you.”

He heard the flustered apprehension in her tone, and strangely, it left him untouched. Fear had come and gone, that first, miserable, confusing night two weeks ago. Only a cool sense of inevitability remained. Luke nodded shortly to the woman.

“Where do I go?”

In direct contrast to the rest of the Palace, Palpatine’s personal chambers were spare of lavish furnishing, low-ceilinged, and oddly subdued. At one end of the room, massive double doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the city. The Emperor stood on far edge of the balcony, facing away from the room. Luke approached quietly.

He reached the doors. The cloaked figure did not stir. _Did he hear me?_ Luke wondered. _Should I say something? Is it rude to speak first?_ After an intense inner debate he decided to remain still.

Time passed. At length, the Emperor stirred.

“Welcome, young Varewé.”

Luke fidgeted, unsure of how to reply. “I…Thank you, highness,” he settled on. Stars. That sounded stupid. Why was it that his self-possession fled in the presence of this man?

Emperor Palpatine turned slowly. In the light of day, his face was visible, and Luke could not help flinching a little at the sight.

It looked as if the man were being eaten alive.

 _So he is,_ something whispered. _The era of Palpatine draws to a close, and the era of Skywalker approaches._

Luke forced his face to remain still. _Skywalker? Who’s that?_ he wondered, despite himself. A low chuckle tickled the base of his skull. It annoyed and unsettled Luke that the palace’s presence kept shifting like this; sometimes it felt vast and powerful enough to swallow him, and other times, nothing more than tickle in his mind.

_Who indeed?_

“I have been watching you, boy. You show great promise. It is rare, indeed, to find a mind so keen in one so young. Although not surprising; I knew your mother and father, and you are like them both.”

“Mother and Father?” Luke repeated, surprised. “They never mentioned knowing you.”

He was rewarded with a slow, sickening smile filled with rotting teeth.

“Fascinating. But no matter. I have called you here today because I have need of you.”

The Emperor’s words refused to attach to an understandable framework. They spiraled into his mind crazily, making no more sense than some of Melgida’s choicer passages.

“Me?”

“I am dying.” Palpatine said it abruptly, and without emotion. “Only you can help me now.”

“How?” Luke asked, bewildered. A heaviness was descending on his mind. The Emperor began to pace, hands clasped before him, sleeves of his robe pooling in front. It occurred to Luke that the robe was probably unbearably hot, and he wondered why the Emperor wore it.

“What you must understand, young Varewé, is that the death of a body is unimportant. It is the survival of ideals that matters. I grow old. Soon, my flesh will crumble. But I myself, the essence of who I am, that is immortal. Palpatine will reign forever.”

“How?” Luke repeated. The wizened old man smiled at him slowly.

“Through you, my boy. I will teach you my subtleties, give you my strength, and you will rule my Empire as I have.” The thought was incomprehensible to Luke, and so he only stood quietly, storing away the information away for future digestion. Palpatine favored him with another smile, this one a touch indulgent.

“You exert self-control. That is good, and rare for one so young.” He laid a wrinkled hand on the balcony railing, gazing out over the city. “Absolute power is a delicate balance. It is necessary for one to hold it, or the galaxy would fall into chaos. However, the task is no easy one. He who wields power must be strong himself, and wise in the dispensation of his strength. Even the most powerful are not born wise. They must learn. _I_ will teach you power.”

Luke worked his throat, found his voice.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I don’t want to rule.” It was an unthinkably stupid thing to say, but he had lost the capability to think a few moments ago. He was simply expressing, dumbly, what his deepest emotions were screaming.

The Emperor did not turn, but suddenly Luke felt the same dangerous crackle in the air of the night they had met.

“Do you not?” he murmured, half to himself.

“No,” Luke replied respectfully, and with every ounce of stubbornness he possessed. An impotent fury trembled all around him, squeezing at him, prying at his skull until his ears popped and he had to swallow. There was a battle going on that he did not understand and wasn’t even sure he was a part of.

But at last, the pressure faded. The air cleared. A breeze wafted in, rustling the light curtains framing the balcony doors. Luke sighed involuntarily.

“Leave,” the Emperor ordered abruptly. Bowing, Luke turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, a silky voice stopped him in his tracks.

“What do you desire most, young Luke?”

The question took him off guard, and unwisely, he told the truth.

“To make my mother love me,” he answered, and rushed out the door.

_Once upon a time, there was a small boy who couldn’t take his eyes off the stars. If asked why, he’d probably shrug carelessly, or brag about seeing them all someday. But that’s just because the boy didn’t know himself very well. If he did, he would tell you that he and the stars were friends, drawn together the way all friends are: common ground. Small, blazing mysteries that burned and brightened, Anakin Skywalker and the stars danced to the same throbbing rhythm, sang the same song, lived by the same law. Now, the man who the boy became still stares at the sky for hours. But it’s different. He never notices the stars anymore._

_He’s gazing at the blank places in-between._

_See, he still doesn’t know who he is. He makes friends with the emptiness because he’s lost in emptiness himself. There’s not much to think about now, not much to be excited or interested in. His old memories are irrelevant, new ones not worth dwelling on. Sometimes he used to drag out faces, beautiful ones, noble ones, innocent ones, hang them in misty frames and allow himself to be miserable—just for the diversion. Now, even regret is worn out from over-usage. He looks at the faces and feels only a realization that it happened and is over._

_Darth Vader is bored stiff._

_He stares out at the places between the stars and wishes desperately for something to rage about._

_Or even…_

_He laughs at the thought and pushes it aside, only to pull it back when laughter dies away and silence encroaches once more._

_…Or even something to care about._

Chapter Six

Countess Claria was a perfect lady.

Perfect ladies did not fall asleep at formal gatherings.

Therefore, it was Mara Jade asleep in the window seat, not Countess Claria, despite the striking resemblance.

Mara Jade slept, and she dreamed.

_A fine mist of blood spattered across her face._

_“You! Stormtrooper! Stand where you are!” she shouted, but he only kicked at the alien and took off running. Grimly, she wiped her eyes clean and loped away from the twitching body. On the other side of the street a high wall offered refuge; she swung behind it and crouched, panting. Her eyes closed—then flew open as an explosion shook the wall._

_“Where is that transport?” she growled, searching the sky desperately. Another flash of fire and smoke sent the ground shuddering and she sprang to her feet. It wasn’t safe here. It wasn’t safe anywhere. She needed to get away. Again, her eyes raked across the sky, watering with the acrid smoke of burning chemicals and bodies. The transport hadn’t made it to the rendezvous point, and Mara began to wonder if it was coming for her at all. The situation had gotten out of hand._

_The question was, why?_

_She looked around. Another corpse lay a few meters away, eyes wide and staring. Rubbing at her temples, she closed her eyes as tired bewilderment throbbed in her skull. If they were here to dispose of the government, why were civilians being slaughtered? And why mostly aliens? The palace was flattened, a mass of smoking rubble, but so was Theed. Hours after the main attack, stormtroopers still swarmed through the streets wreaking what seemed like senseless destruction. The trooper who took down that Gungan hadn’t even listened to her…Not that she had any real authority on this mission, but usually stormies knew a voice of command when they heard it…_

_A high whine was her only warning, and it came too late. Mara barely had time to flinch before an avalanche of rock and dust slammed onto her and white lights exploded behind her eyes…_

“Countess… _Countess._ Countess Claria.”

Mara sucked in her breath sharply and sat up.

“Are you quite all right, milady?” The young Baron’s voice was soft and anxious, and his hazel eyes squinted down at her nervously.

“Perfectly, dear Baron. Just a little fatigue.” Mustering up a simultaneously apologetic and dazzling smile, she held out a jeweled hand. He helped her up eagerly.

“If you’re feeling better, there’s a scrumptious waltz just beginning, and I thought we might…”

Mara pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the alien’s sightless eyes to fade from her mind.

“That sounds splendid!” she replied brightly.

Luke looked down into his goblet and thought he might be sick.

“Are you alright?” Garmonsaw asked, suddenly catching sight of his face.

The liquid in the glass was crimson and syrupy with a gleaming flat surface. He could see his face reflected in it—sometimes. Other times shadows stole across the mirror, and Luke’s courage quailed at the forms they took. He shuddered, downed the sticky mass of it. It stuck to the sides of his throat on the way down, clung to his insides eagerly, hungrily, intensifying his nausea. Suddenly the visions were inside his head instead of out. He wanted to throw up.

He wanted to run away.

“No,” he answered Garmonsaw. “I’m not okay.” But the Moff’s son had already forgotten.

“What? Hey, sniff me. No, seriously! I want to know what you think.”

With an expression of vast long-suffering, Luke leaned over and took an obedient whiff.  
“Nice,” he commented. “Very…floral. I didn’t know you wore cologne.”

“I don’t,” Gartee informed him. “It’s perfume. Senator Griselr doused my jacket with it on the sly. But it’s okay?” His voice turned anxious. “Not too girly? Grissy said it would make me magnetic _._ I’m just hoping she wasn’t talking about bees.”

“Aha.” A grin spread across Luke’s face, exposing every tooth. “And do you want to be _magnetic_ tonight, eh my friend? Maybe irresistibly attractive to that “nobody” you’ve been mooning about?” He held up the goblet, crooned into it softly. “Looooove, is in zee air…Garmonsaw has girly perfume in his hair…”

The shove nearly knocked him over. “Shut up, you. But seriously, am I all right?”

Luke stifled a second stanza at the sight of his friend’s serious eyes.

“The smell’s hardly noticeable,” he lied. “And you look sharp tonight.” That part at least was true. Gartee picked at the clasps on his jacket anxiously.

“Really?”

“No. You look like the love child of a Mon Calimarian and a bantha. Yes, you idiot, you look great—better than I do. So point her out to me.”

“Who?”

Luke had to laugh at the studied boredom on Gartee’s face, and he did.

“Fine. It’s…” the tall boy paused dramatically. “Somebody who hates your guts.”

Inexplicably, a pair of green eyes flashed in Luke’s mind.

“Who?” he asked uncertainly.

Mara spun lightly across the floor, feeling the swish of gauze against her legs.

“You’re such a good dancer,” the Baron remarked admiringly. She swept a stray hair from her eyes and smiled.

“I had a good teacher.” And she did. Bretonyin was an expert in many subjects. She had also learned the Parapek cut from her, Mara reflected. Not many instructors could teach both a pirouette and the art of destroying a wall with a lightsaber. 

“We had a private dance tutor at the manor. He used to teach in a finishing school on Chandrila—Gritchner, you know, used to be called Blackstone—and Father only contracted him at a terrific fee…” He prattled on, and Mara tuned him out. The Baron had lost his shyness halfway into the waltz, much to her irritation.

Faces swirled past her as they cut their graceful arc across the ballroom, most unfamiliar, a few that she knew very well. Senator Haust, alone as usual…Senator Lovrensteck and his newest wife…Senator Organa and his daughter…Senator Barr, more flamboyant than ever. 

And Senator Melgida.

At the sight of her, Mara’s confusion and frustration welled up once again. _Why_? Why did the Emperor instruct her to come tonight? True, Baron Atleil’s family bore scrutiny, but the young noble himself could hardly be involved, and why would he transact business at the annual Senator’s Ball, anyways?

_He’s keeping you out of the way. Giving you busy work._

For a horrible instant, the thought flashed across her mind. Her gut wrenched painfully.

“…and I just told him ‘Bouvrak, you’ll get yours’…Countess, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

“I…” she said unsteadily, “A little dizzy spell, that’s all.”

He looked at her closely, well-bred concern on his boyish face. “Still, I certainly don’t wish to over-tire you, Countess. Shall we retire? Refreshments, perhaps?”

At her distracted nod, he tucked her arm in his and they began to thread their way through the maze of couples. Mara barely noticed. With the puncture of that one, dangerous thought, a shield had ruptured; dizzying, turgid, the stream of questions rose rapidly. Why had the Emperor seemed so preoccupied lately? Why had his warmth diminished? Why did he dismiss her from his presence so often, and so abruptly? Her training regimen lagged. Why? Admittedly, she was partially to blame for that last. Mara’s teachers had repeatedly commented on her inattention, lack of focus. Which, of course, stemmed from her building confusion…

And the Emperor was not the only cause of that confusion.

_Everything comes back to you, Melgida._ On the topic of questions, what did the politician want from her? By now, there was no mistaking the edge of greed in Melgida’s voice, cunning and impatient like a starved predator. Their all-too frequent conversations were tinged with vague risk; sometimes, a stray comment even bordered on treasonous. But Mara couldn’t stay away. As long as she could remember, her life had been defined by learning. Each acquired skill translated into approval from her Master—the only reward that meant anything. Her capacity to absorb was enormous, and her desire insatiable. Now, this. Twansa Melgida knew something Mara did not. The Emperor’s interest in her seemed waning. It was marriage of circumstance and personality, and someone was bound to capitalize.

Mara still wasn’t sure who that would be.

“…Ruhamman stuffed shellfish seems tender enough, but maybe you prefer the lox…?”

With a start, she emerged from her private haze of worry.

“Both,” she replied, too quickly. Baron Atleil’s eyes widened slightly before he politely smothered the surprise. He turned and busied himself with the hordeuvres. Mara scowled slightly behind his back. This exercise was so _pointless._ Better, almost, to be disobedient and engaged in something constructive than mindlessly loyal and useless.

The thought sickened her. How could it even enter her mind? She, Mara Jade, destined to be the Emperor’s most trusted agent? _How_?

Yet another question to pile on the others. And only one person appeared to have answers.

With disturbing ease, Mara buried her guilt and slipped away from the Baron’s side. 

“Okay. Here she comes. I’m going to talk to her.” Garmonsaw sucked in a long breath, raked a hand through his thick black hair. “Cross your fingers, Luke. Luke? Wake up, buddy. I kind of need you here.”

Luke blinked. He smiled at his friend, but shadows still flickered in his eyes.

“Positive you’re not sick?” Garmonsaw asked again. “Need a drink or something?”

“We’re underage,” Luke replied automatically.

“Stang, Luke, we’re not at school anymore. This is Coruscant…okay, okay, okay. Here I go.”

A tall, olive-skinned man passed by them, accompanied by a girl of decidedly different complexion.

“Excuse me.” Garmonsaw stepped out, intersecting their path with a blinding smile and outstretched hand. “Senator Organa? My name is Garmonsaw Fortee III. I believe you and my father have had political dealings…”

A brief hint of dislike crossed the Senator’s face, instantly smoothed away.

“So we have. Greetings, master Fortee.” His voice was low, cultured, structured by a control that betrayed nothing. Luke wondered if he had imagined the faint grimace. There was a hesitation, then “I don’t suppose you’ve made the acquaintance of my daughter.”

“Actually, I haven’t had that pleasure.”

Luke winced slightly at the bounding eagerness in Gartee’s tone. Another instant of hesitation. Organa turned to the girl.

“Daughter, this is Garmonsaw Fortee, son of an—a colleague of mine. Master Fortee, my daughter, Princess Organa.” His gaze caught Luke. “And your friend…?”

“We’ve met.” The Princess spoke up for the first time, in a cool, cutting voice Luke found oddly familiar. She inclined her head slightly. “Once again, congratulations.”

Then he knew. The blonde braids...sharp grey eyes…

Vichae Organa, his opposition in the debate finals. _Princess_ Vichae Organa. 

The Senator looked at both of them, puzzled. Princess Vichae seemed disinclined to speak further. Garmonsaw had been reduced to a mute, smiling idiot at the sound of her voice. Luke realized he would have to introduce himself. He stepped forward, held out a hand. 

“An honor, Senator. I am Luke Varewé.”

Bail Organa’s reaction was instantaneous and violent. His dark skin lightened to a shade Luke wouldn’t have thought possible, and he stumbled back a few paces before clutching a nearby table. His knuckles were white.

“I… _Luke_?”

Startled, Luke stepped back, gripped the stem of his long-empty goblet.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” He knew they hadn’t. Slowly, color returned to the Senator’s face. He drew in a breath and straightened.

“No. But I—I knew your—your aunt very well.”

Luke stared at him curiously. “I don’t have an aunt, Senator. Only an uncle, on my father’s side. You must be mistaken.”

“Yes. Yes. That’s it. I’m gravely mistaken. It seems we all were…about a great many things.” A melancholy smile twisted the politician’s face. “How are you, master Varewé?”

Luke opened his mouth to answer, but at that instant the nausea surged up again, and the room dimmed and he had to close his eyes to block the crawling images out. It didn’t work.

Something bad was about to happen, and he was powerless to stop it.

A hand rested on his shoulder. He looked up, met dark eyes full of strange pity.

“May the force be with you, Luke,” the Senator whispered, and taking his daughter by the arm, he strode quickly away.

Luke frowned after him.

Force? What force?

“That’s a nasty scar you’ve got there,” Melgida observed. Mara shrugged. “Looks fresh.” The Senator’s tone was casual but probing. With an inner sigh, Mara prepared to deflect this line of inquiry with a plausible lie—then halted in mid-thought. Why? Why not tell Twansa the truth? Why keep up the games? Suddenly inebriated on the notion of honesty, she flung caution and conscience to the wind.

“A wall collapsed on me,” she said bluntly. Melgida’s mouth twitched.

“Intriguing. And how did that happen? Step on one too many noble toes? Upset a tea caddy?”

Mara gazed away. “I was on Naboo. A mission.”

“What sort of mission, Countess?” 

She turned around then, looked the older woman straight in the eye, and spoke the next words evenly. “A training mission. I accompanied a special ops team whose objective was to quietly take out an entrenched administration. We succeeded. However, not everything went as planned.”

“I see.” Melgida responded with equal calm. For a few moments, they sipped their drinks quietly. Then the Senator dropped a bombshell of her own.

“Tell me, Countess Claria. How did it feel, to witness so much slaughter? Did it bother you at all to see aliens massacred in front of your eyes?”

A subtle pounding began to build at the base of Mara’s skull. The mission _was secret._ No one knew—not even the Emperor’s highest advisors. No one! And with good reason. The evidence of Naboo’s treachery was skeletal at best, imaginary at worst. Always alert to scandal, the Senate would not stand for a blatant handling of matters. Her master had been quite urgent, however. And if the Emperor sensed treachery, treachery there must be. The timing was unfortunate. Immediately preceding a fresh session of the Senate, backlash would be instant and furious if word got out. The necessity of ruse became apparent. A “terrorist” attack seemed the best option, necessitating, of course, a vigorous Imperial response.

The strike went off without a hitch. Brutally efficient and instantly muffled, it was a textbook success. The Emperor’s press agents would release a statement tonight; by all indications, their cover-up had been flawless. Everyone in the Palace save herself, the Emperor, and a few others would be shocked.

How, then…how in worlds did Melgida know the details of what happened? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was a lucky guess, an intuitive stab in the dark based on Mara’s confession.

In the face of Twansa Melgida’s somber, knowing black eyes, she doubted it. 

The stakes were suddenly and irreversibly raised.

Without a word, Luke quietly made his way out of the ballroom and to the nearest refresher. He leaned over a stool and retched violently.

When he returned, the announcement had already been made.

It didn’t matter.

He knew.

_Old Ben Kenobi waits in the trivial shade of his doorstep. Sweat drips in rivulets from every pore, soaking his light robe. It is high noon. The twin suns are blistering._

_He has waited for hours, and he will wait for hours more if necessary._

_The minutes trickle by. Suddenly, he raises his head at the light patter of footsteps and the rustle of rocks shaken loose from the path. A wide smile breaks across his face. He rises swiftly, discomfort forgotten._

_A slender, white-clad figure rounds the corner of his hut._

_“Hi, Ben!” she greets him._

_“Leia,” he says, and opens his arms._

“Come here, my boy.”

Numbly, Luke moved into the outstretched arms. They were gone. His entire family.

Murdered.

Dead.

His mind was a great hollow drum with one word rattling around inside. 

_Dead._

_Dead._

_Dead._

The reverberations shook his entire body, but tears would not come. Only silent, heaving sobs and the hollowness of his mind.

_Dead._

“Luke, child…”

Vaguely, he realized his face was buried in the Emperor’s waist, his hands were clutching the Emperor’s robes, the Emperor’s hand was stroking his hair. It was a foreign experience to him; Mother had never been demonstrative that way.

It was an experience he had longed for his entire life.

To be hugged.

“She never…” he choked in voice ravaged by unshed tears. “I never…”

“Hush, hush. I am here, Luke. I see your worth. I will never let you down. Shh…”

_Follow your destiny, and your heart will never break again._

He did not know if it was the palace or Palpatine who whispered into his ear.

He did not care.

In the horrible emptiness of his grief, Luke heard and believed utterly.

Chapter Seven

Time passed quickly for Luke. Too quickly. When he had time to think, it frightened him. There was always a faint, distinct tug on his personality, as if he were rushing forward much faster than his surroundings. And the inevitability; that was unnerving too. He felt it stronger each day, a force as steady and permanent as gravity. His destiny appeared to take itself for granted now, and that scared him the most of all. Free will. What a joke. Slowly, a cynical frost began to coat his thinking patterns.

That is, when he had time to think. Those times were not often.

There was so much to learn. Raw talent Luke had, but his deficit of skill was staggering. It was one thing to find the weaknesses already present in a being or situation and exploit them. It was another matter altogether to _create_ weakness where none had been before. That took a level of finesse Luke could scarcely even fathom. Sometimes he kept his silence for days on end, afraid to miss the smallest nuance of Palpatine’s interactions with others. Like a small shadow, he trailed the Emperor from throne room to conference hall to passageway to solitary balcony. There were whispers. Some bold souls had the effrontery—or mere stupidity—to notice his constant attendance and wonder. Whispers are only air, though, unless they catch a spark to ignite, and Luke was careful to make no sparks. So he followed, and the whispers flared for a while and then faded. 

One day in mid-summer the fever pitch of his mind slowed slightly. The Emperor was closeted with one of the white-uniformed Admirals, one of the rare instances when Luke’s presence was not allowed. With a shallow yawn, Luke leaned against a black granite pillar and closed his eyes. Exertion of the mind produced weariness of a different shade than any other. Working with the hands leaves a clean, almost tangible ache in the muscles and joints. A good night’s sleep, a massage, a hot meal, and that’s that. Luke’s weariness went beyond his flesh. It pulsed lividly in the very core of who he was, yellow-grey, scattering tendrils of dull pain through his limbs and torso every time he drew a breath.

On that first night, his mind had somehow jumped, thoughts operating on a higher, purer level. In this altered state he could see more, hear more, absorb everything and instantly fit it into a massive pattern that was still growing. Not just a pattern. The Pattern. A neat web into which everything in the universe could be placed, every being, every philosophy, every uttered word, every location, every memory. The Pattern was his greatest tool. Only when a world was properly categorized could it be ruled. That was the secret, Palpatine’s greatest gift. There were no variables in his existence. No autonomy within his sphere of influence.

All was trapped somewhere in his mind.

Luke already had a beginning Pattern of sorts, but a very primitive, volatile one. He had used it his entire life without realizing it; that explained his abilities and the “power” he felt sometimes. There was no such thing as true, mystical power, Palpatine explained. Just the natural capabilities of the mind.

And those, Luke began to see, were almost limitless.

Anyone could learn to have a photographic memory. Anyone could read the deepest intents of others simply by studying their body language. Anyone could stroke an idle ill feeling into conflagration, light fire after fire until flame stretched from horizon to horizon. Anyone could make chaos out of order, nothing out of something. Anyone could wreck and use the wreckage as building blocks of a new civilization. Anyone could make the galaxy his own.

That is, anyone who was properly taught.

Palpatine was the only living teacher.

And Luke Varewé was his only pupil.

The learning did not come without price. It is all well and good to think on another plane; there is a reason, though, that most beings touch that plane only briefly, if ever. Godhood eats a man’s soul.

Luke slumped against the pillar and tried to think of nothing at all.

An hour passed. The door to the room remained closed. He stretched, settled onto the floor…

And with a jolt, something popped out of place in his mind.

Gingerly, he touched a temple with one finger. It was if he’d woken up, or fallen asleep, or something. He thought sluggishly, fuzzier, but most jarringly, the thoughts were not along his customary paths.

_Gartee…haven’t seen him much since that night. Haven’t thought about him, either. That’s a little strange. Twansa. I wonder where she is. Countess Claria…wasn’t she at the Ball? I haven’t seen her at all. Maybe she was just visiting. Maybe she went home._

The twinge of loneliness surprised and disturbed him.

“None of that,” he told himself aloud, sternly. “It’s in the past. Garmonsaw has no part in my life now. As for the others…they were nothing to me, even then.”

 _Bravo_.

Luke didn’t even blink. “It’s been a while,” he commented. “Been on vacation?”

_I never left you, just as you will never leave me._

He crossed his arms nonchalantly. “Always so ominous. Have you ever considered a change of tone? Maybe some humor, a few colloquialisms thrown in for variety?”

Silence rang in his ears for a few moments.

_Ah…you have come far. Such a magnificent mind. And yet, such weakness at the pit…who can say if you will overcome…it’s almost unfair, really. But you would not be fit to rule if a little injustice conquered you…and the weakness will be driven out soon. Perhaps soon enough. Perhaps not. I cannot tell._

“I have no more weakness,” Luke said softly. His heart had never felt stonier. That familiar laugh trickled down his ears.

_Far you may have come, but the path ahead is farther still. Overconfidence is your teacher’s only weakness. Do not let it be yours._

“Not a chance.” Luke yawned again. He tired of this conversation. “Would you mind leaving me alone, now?”

_Guard your mind._

A breath of dark import niggled in Luke’s consciousness at those words. He sat up, opened his eyes fully. “What?”

But silence answered him once more, and this time, it stayed.

At the end of the summer there was an assassination attempt on the Emperor. It was no small-scale operation; the staff had been infiltrated and an entire wing bugged. Palpatine escaped unscathed, of course. He had changed the routine that morning, left his chambers hours earlier than normal. Others in the wing were not so lucky. The gas killed instantly, painlessly, and spread through the area in seconds. Whoever the perpetrator was, he was not afraid of getting his hands dirty. There were nearly seventy dead in the final count.

The press release blamed the Rebellion. Privately, Luke doubted it. It didn’t match that organization’s typical profile. Too ethically messy, for one. For another, too well executed. What little he had seen of the Alliance’s movements indicated audacity but only strategic competence. This attack boasted a clever military brain, innovation, wealth, and an inside man. That last the Rebels probably had. The first three, not a chance.

So who, then? That was his first question. The second followed close on its heels.

How in worlds had the Emperor survived?

Like many others, it was a puzzle he was forced at last to give up. Mental agility can only explain so much. How to account for the flashes of intuition Luke had every now and then? How to account for the seemingly purposeless actions Palpatine made so often, later warranted by circumstances he could not possibly have foreseen? It was simple. They could not be accounted for.

Luke let it be. There was so much he did not know; one more shard of ignorance could hardly hurt him. He would learn. Of that he was sure.

Palpatine had promised to teach him everything.

The day after the attack, a sallow-faced man approached Luke while he waited for the Emperor to come out of conference.

“Master.”

The honorific startled Luke slightly. He looked up appraisingly and determined several points right away. This was a weak man with a small, twisted soul, the kind who would crush those beneath him and fawn on those over him. He was also a politician—a poor one, at that.

And he was happy. That meant…revenge, of some sort.

“Yes?”

“Master, my name is Senator Gale Skrefin, of Bosrua. I have come into some information I feel will benefit the Empire, concerning, between you and I, a traitor in our midst, but in light of recent events, I did not know who to trust, and since you appear to reside in the highest circle, I determined…”

“Just give it to me,” Luke snapped. He harbored little patience for sycophants.

Paling, the man handed him a datacard and retreated. After taking a few steps, he looked over his shoulder.

“Remember my name. Skrefin.”

Luke let his face go still. The senator paled even further and scuttled away.

Mara felt something ignite deep inside, a small, white nugget of heat that burned, burned.

“How could you?” she hissed. “How could you be a traitor? You took my trust… _I trusted you._ ”

Melgida’s face sagged. There were wrinkles Mara had not noticed before, at her eyes, on her forehead, about her mouth. Her eyes had retreated into the sockets until they seemed nothing but dark pits in dim light.

“You weren’t ready,” the senator replied, bleakly resigned. “This I knew. But I had no choice. The opportunity presented itself...we… _I_ had no choice.” Mara felt her face blaze with sudden fury. Here she stood, still covered in grime from the seven-week training session, stood while her world collapsed. Her time away had only cemented the dissatisfaction Melgida had planted. As if a gauze had fallen from her eyes, she saw new things every day. Flaws in the Empire…injustices. Injustice scored her spirit. Mara bore the blackened marks hopefully, though. All along she trusted the senator’s promise, the pledge of knowledge and a better way.

And she came home to _this._

Outright, anarchic treason.

It was a way Mara Jade could not follow. So she stood all alone in a crumbling world, weeping in her filth for a faith broken beyond repair, purpose gone forever.

Twansa Melgida backed away, drawing her robes around her. She looked very ancient and almost unearthly in that moment.

“I cannot mend what is broken. Not now.” And her voice was changed, deeper, spun through with cracks and echoes of great power. Mara shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. Her face was dry. The tears were inside.

“You meant all along to break me.” It was both question and answer. In the realization of it, her fury exploded once more, then contracted swiftly until color dulled to ash grey and only twin points of fire burned in her pupils. “I have nothing now.”

“Yes. I did mean. To break you, and make you into something new. But I am out of time and you are unfinished. Don’t get too comfortable in your bitterness, Mara Jade. One day I will complete what I started. One day I will return for you.”

A stormtrooper ran up to them.

“Hey, you! Senator! I arrest you in the name…”

A hand shot out of the robes, snaked under the trooper’s throat and lifted him clean off the ground.

_“I was never here.”_

Mara and the stormtrooper rubbed their eyes and looked at each other. They were alone in the quiet corridor.

“Hello,” she said stupidly. Her temples throbbed. The trooper looked her up and down.

“I’m looking for a senator, tall, dark complexion, a human female. Have you seen her?”

Slowly, Mara shook her head. Her jaw was trembling. The soldier gave her a suspicious look and brought his blaster to bear.

“You’re a strange sort of person to be in the Imperial Palace. What are you, a beggar? I’ll have to take you into custody—”

Mara slipped past him easily. She needed to speak to her Master.

Whether she trusted him or not, he was all the life she had left.

She did not recognize the royal guardsman at the Emperor’s wing. More importantly, he did not recognize her.

“Get out of my way,” she snapped. “My name is Mara Jade. I am the Emperor’s Hand.”

The red-robed guard gave her a long, measuring stare. Mara realized how she must look, hair matted and unwashed, camo jumpsuit still crusted in dirt, cuts and bruises covering her limbs.

“Never mind that,” she said, irritation hoarsening her voice. “My name is _Mara Jade_ and I’m…”

“I’ve never heard of you,” the guardsman cut in coldly. “Recognition code?”

Kriff it. The Emperor wouldn’t give those to her until she completed her training and was Hand in full. Instead, he made sure everyone on his staff knew who she was—or at least left her alone.

Of course he would have changed the old staff. It was just an oversight that this one wasn’t told…

An oversight. It had to be.

“This is a restricted area. You’re going to leave now.”

“Oh, am I?” Something snapped at that, a cool strand of reason binding her anger. Who was this flunkey to show her such disrespect? Involuntarily, her body eased into combat position. She’d define Emperor’s Hand for him, the fool…

Anticipating her strike, the Force-pike in his hands whipped down hard. She dodged it easily and drove in hard with her left foot, catching his chin with a spinning kick that sent his head rocketing back. He was up quickly, but more wary now. _Now he knows,_ she thought with satisfaction. The pike shot out again toward her abdomen. _Too fast…_ instinctively, she sank into the Force. The pike slowed. With supernaturally strong fingers, she grabbed it just as the tip grazed her tunic, twisted it from his grasp. He lunged toward her. Slowly. Or at least it seemed that way to Mara, reflexes heightened by the energy field around her, murder in her heart. She smiled and raised the pike high above her…

“Hold it just a sec.”

The new voice froze both her and the guardsman. It was not loud, but somehow sliced through the air with a keenness that both stung and arrested. Sweat dripped from Mara’s face as she held the pike poised in place.

“Drop it.”

She did, hands loosening of their own accord. The pike knocked the guard in the head as it fell.

“Look at me, both of you.”

The royal guardsman rose to his feet, robes askew. Mara cracked her neck and turned.

A boy stood before them, about her age, fair-haired with a glacial face. Sort of familiar, but not quite…

He broke the silence first, gaze passing over her to rest on the guardsman. To Mara’s shock, he nodded casually.

“Quosta.”

To her further shock, the guardsman inclined his own head respectfully.

“Master Varewé.”

_Varewé!_

The boy brushed at his tunic. “I was just going in to see the Emperor. It seems, though, that someone else also seeks admittance.”

A stiffness straightened the red-robed shoulders.

“She is obviously an intruder, sir, possibly with traitorous intent. I was merely performing my duty.”

“Were you.” Those eyes flickered back to Mara, studied her. Yes. He was the same Varewé. But different…surely his eyes had not chilled her before, two chips of ice set in a still face…

A tight smile nudged his lips upward.

“Quosta. The Empire needs dutiful men, but not brain-dead ones. Sometimes I wonder if you’re brain-dead.” He addressed the other man, but his gaze never left Mara’s face. “Here comes a young lady who’s obviously not what she seems. Holds off _you_ , a royal guardsman, comes to the point of defeating you—and you never stop to ask, ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’” Varewé shook his head. Mara stole a glance to the side; the guardsman’s face was several shades lighter than before. “A brain-dead man is one who acts blindly and thinks after if at all. Please try to be a little smarter in your duty.”

“Of—of course. My apologies.”

The boy’s smile disappeared.

“Go in. I can wait,” he said to Mara. She stared at him, and a sliver of comprehension crawled up through her mind. _Oh._

Now she understood.

The beginnings of hatred stirred in her gut.

Without thanking him, she swept inside the wing.

Luke waited until the Countess—or whoever she was—left before going in. He stepped in quietly and waited at the back of the room until Palpatine acknowledged his presence. A good twenty minutes passed before the ruler roused himself from his reverie. He spoke to Luke without looking at him.

“Young Varewé. You wonder how I survived today. It is because I rule absolutely. It is the way things are. In fact, I rather hoped for such an incident, because it opens a lesson I wish to teach you. Attend, now. There must always be the one who rules absolutely. But he cannot be everywhere at once, though omniscient and omnipresent at the same time.”

Luke did not understand. It must have been obvious, because the Emperor chuckled.

“The understanding will come in time. Know this, though. Keep it in your mind until further training illuminates the full meaning. All power will rest in your hands, but you must not handle it yourself or it will consume you. You must merely speak, direct, and let others perform your will. But simple delegation is not enough. You must have a proxy to bear the raw destructive force of your power so you may wield it coolly, impassionedly.”

“Darth Vader.”

“Yes.” The old man turned, looked at him carefully under lidded eyes. “He is mine. But he will not be yours.”

“Why?” The question slipped out of Luke’s mouth unbidden. He wondered at the strange sense of disappointment welling up in his chest. A slight smile twisted the Emperor’s face.

“There are…complications. You would not control him well. No. I have prepared another for your purposes.” He peered at the aide almost expectantly, and a weighted silence fell.

It was not long before Luke’s mind touched the answer, insight falling into place with a quiet click. 

“The Countess,” he said simply.

“Excellent, boy.” The Emperor’s eyes seemed to glow faintly, even in the daylight. “Your instincts serve you well.”

“I don’t know anything about her,” Luke objected.

“But you will. When I am finished teaching you, nothing in her soul or past will be hidden from your eyes. You will own her, as I own Lord Vader. And she will serve you faithfully, as he serves me.”

“She hates me.” Another click, and as he spoke the words he recognized their truth, though he had not known it before.

“That is necessary. We must ensure that she continues to hate you in the future, as well. I will consider this.” 

“But…I don’t _want_ her to hate me.” The Emperor looked at him sharply and Luke flushed. The old man cackled.

“She is a pretty little thing, is she not? Take her if you will, young Varewé. It might make her hate you more.”  
“I—” Luke nearly choked on his tongue. He felt as if the floor had dropped out under his feet.

“Have you never been with a woman, boy?” Palpatine’s voice was almost fatherly. “That is a situation easily remedied. But…” he considered Luke’s flaming face, red to his hairline and the tips of his ears. “…Perhaps that can wait. Passion is good, but only under great control. Passion of the flesh is a dangerous kind, skirting the edge of weakness. I gave it up long ago for more…sophisticated pleasures. You must never be weak, Luke. You must never let a woman have influence over you. Use Jade to bear your power and your seed, if you so desire, but never, ever, _love_ her.”

The last words were hissed, and Luke shivered as the room grew colder.

“Jade?” he questioned.

For a long time, the Emperor did not seem to hear him, wrapped in his own thoughts. At last he stirred.

“Mara Jade.” His voice was distant. “Countess Claria’s true name. Go, now, boy. I am tired.”

Luke got up quietly and left. He turned once before closing the door, gazed at the old man standing by the window.

_He is almost gone._ _Your reign approaches._

Luke shut the door and slipped into the corridor.

“Go away,” he told the Palace irritably. “I have a lot to think about.”

For once, the presence obeyed without argument. The space around his thoughts emptied immediately.

It bothered Luke more than anything he’d heard or seen that afternoon.

_Tarkin arrives. Like a rat, he sniffs and scurries about the Death Star, gnawing where he can and lusting after all with glittering eyes. Darth Vader grows more and more disgusted. He ignores the Grand Moff when possible, brushes aside all false obsequiousness. Tarkin detests him for it. He feels the hatred growing every day, fueled by fear and helplessness. The Governor begins to sow seeds of discontent among the crew and officers, to stir up ill feeling._

_Vader begins to be sick of the whole affair. If Tarkin wishes to play with the Death Star, let him. He can never know the meaning of true power, however much he pants for it. Palpatine sent this sniveling lapdog. If the lapdog goes rabid, it will not be Lord Vader’s fault._

_Besides, of late he has wished to see Coruscant again. Something…a gentle current, tugging at him, a whisper brushing his mind like late summer air. Soft, but urgent. Calling him home._

_He makes preparations to leave._

Chapter Eight

Darth Vader returned on Mara’s sixteenth birthday. Summer had passed to fall; fall, to the arid chill that was not truly winter. 

_What a present,_ she thought sullenly. _My favorite Sith Lord, here to make everything cheery. We can have a party. Maybe he brought cakes. In little cellophane baggies. With bows. If it’s beneath his dignity to carry cakes, I’m sure the stormtroopers would oblige…_

The thought of Vader bearing baked goods struck her as unbearably funny at that moment. She laughed aloud and Bretonyin scowled at her.

“Something funny, Jade?”

Sobering quickly, Mara shook her head. The gnarled little woman pursed her lips.

“Concentration, girl! Concentration is everything. Concentration is your life. Concentration serves the Emperor better than any fancy trick I teach you.” The mass of wrinkles on her face stretched as she grimaced. “Kids these days. I remember when students listened. Halla, now she always concentrated so beautifully for me…”

“Who’s Halla?” Mara asked, not really listening. Birthday festivities ala Darth Vader produced images difficult to shake.

She missed the flutter that moved up Bretonyin’s throat, the intensified shaking in hands that shook all the time.

“An old student of mine, that’s all. When I was a Mystral Shadow guard…she turned out quite well for most of her career.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Can you show me that pass again?”

“Well.” Bretonyin’s eyes had clouded over, and it took them a few moments to clear again. “The pass. If you’d been paying attention…! Watch closely, now.”

Mara watched. She would learn. She would be the best. She would _make_ the Emperor see her value.

Laughter leeched from her mind, and she let the anger and the misery return, embraced them while as they flooded her with unnatural energy.

Bretonyin praised her that day.

Luke did not look up when he heard the approach of footsteps.

“The Emperor cannot be disturbed,” he informed the person, frowning over his datapad. “Is there something I or another member of the staff may help you with?”

“I find that doubtful.” The mechanically deep voice rumbled up through Luke’s feet, vibrating. He clenched the datapad and counted to three before looking up.

“Darth Vader.” He rose, bowed. “The Emperor will be pleased to know you have returned.”

Luke felt—no, that was impossible—he _guessed_ the towering figure’s surprise. Was it because he had shown no fear? Likely. But why should _he_ show unnecessary deference to a future subordinate?

The regular hiss of the respirator filled the air for several minutes. Out of respect, Luke did not sit down, and the dark lord showed no inclination of passing by.

“Who are you?” Again, the vibration through the soles of his feet.

“I am Luke Varewé.” He no longer used the traditional Nubian introduction that incorporated one’s lineage and title. It was enough to simply give his name. One day, it would bear significance beyond any heritage. One day, there would be no need for introduction at all. _Emperor Varewé_ would be a name everyone already knew. 

He had accepted it now. It didn’t mean he liked the idea any more than before, but Palpatine wished it. And what Palpatine wished, Luke obliged. His mentor was all that mattered to him.

“Varewé…that name is familiar.”

“Teswin Varewé, my father, was sub-Governor of the Nubian sector,” Luke ventured.

“Was?” The black mask hid all expression, but Luke sensed—guessed—a rising interest.

“He was assassinated by terrorists six months ago,” he said matter-of-factly. “The incident generated a fair amount of publicity. My Lord probably remembers the name from the news.”

“No.” There was an uneasy pause. “What was your mother’s name?”

Just as Luke opened his mouth to reply, the heavy door to the Emperor’s chambers hummed open.

“Ah,” rasped a familiar voice behind him. “Lord Vader. Welcome back to the Imperial Center, my old friend. I trust you left your duties in good hands?”

“Of course, my Master. Governor Tarkin is a most…eager servant of the Empire.”

“Good…good.”

Almost tangentially, Luke caught the tense undertones to the exchange. He wished he knew what they were talking about, what caused the Emperor such glee and Vader such irritation. Was this how it was to be with him and Jade? A constant dance of manipulation and struggle?

Without so much as a glance at him, the two men entered Palpatine’s chambers and left him alone.

One of Luke’s great joys—one of his only joys, in fact—was flying. Over the past months he’d been taking a few lessons as his schedule permitted. The Emperor thought it a foolish waste of time, and the rational part of Luke agreed. His spare moments would be better spent in observation or study. But there was that other side of him…the part Palpatine did not know. The part that felt smothered instead of liberated by the growing Pattern. In his more lucid moments, he recognized this entity as remnants of his old, soft self. Stubbornly, it refused to die, only writhed under the spreading web of self-discipline and cold logic. Sometimes he felt the gnawing of insanity when he spent too long at a mental task.

It was to placate the weakness in him that he flew.

The instructor often commented on how rapidly his student learned. He said it with alternate pride and disquiet his eyes, because there was an edge of desperation to Luke’s eagerness that could not always be hidden. For Luke, piloting a craft meant far more than a simple thrill. It was release. It was freedom. It was mindlessness. When he flew, there was no Pattern, no streams of data, no relentless absorption.

There was joy.

With a deep sigh, Luke slipped into the simulator and grasped the controls. The airways were blocked today, and the instructor wanted him to work on his handling of bulkier vessels. So the simulator it was. Luke did not particularly mind. Better this than nothing.

Stars winked into being as he strapped on the headpiece and flipped the visor down. A small green planet loomed in the viewport. He gave the joystick an experimental nudge downward, just to see how it handled. Grudgingly, the nose of the craft dipped. Luke frowned.

“Clumsy,” he said aloud, checking the profile of this simulation. YT-1300. “What a pile of junk.”

A red indicator light blinked in his peripheral vision. Luke felt a jolt of surprise.

“Zifo?” he questioned.

Static.

“Hey, Zifo?” The light blinked faster—proximity alert.

Someone else had entered the simulator.

“Zifo?” Luke tapped the mouthpiece.

“Yeah, uh, Varewé.” The voice that crackled back was taut and slightly frantic. “I’ve had a request…long and short of it is, this is now a combat lesson.”

“Hold on, Zifo. You broke up there for a second. Did you say _combat_?”

Indistinct cursing. “Just—stay cool, kid. If anyone can handle this it’s you. Over and out.”

“Zifo—Zifo!”

The red light emitted one long tone and blipped out.

His opponent had arrived.

Luke barely had time to register the make of the other ship before he spun into a sharp dive to dodge the missiles. TIE-fighter, it looked like, or some modified version. He banked hard and came around for a pass. Five—six blasts grazed his shields, rocking the vessel. He looked up anxiously as a cacophony of alarms blared. The aft shield was down already.

“Stang,” he cursed, diving again to avoid another hail of lasers. He wasn’t fast enough; another alarm joined the serenade. The starboard shield was now gone too. Half-crippled, he limped closer to the planet’s atmosphere. Perhaps if he got close enough to the surface he could use the topography to his advantage—

The TIE made a sudden plummet, slicing past him with jaw-dropping speed. It hovered four hundred meters beneath him, then began driving upwards like a black comet. So much for that idea. 

Luke’s hands tightened around the controls, now slick with sweat. He could dodge now and maybe prolong the inevitable…

_Do not dodge._ The voice that echoed in his mind was not a familiar one. It was rich, and dark, and…human, somehow. Luke’s eyes widened, then narrowed. He was no stranger to the unexplained. 

“Then what do you suggest?”

_Let go._

“Like sith, I’ll let go!” he yelled. The TIE would make impact in less than a minute. He was about to become a simulated scrap heap.

_If you wish to have a chance, do as I say. Let go of your conscious mind. Trust your feelings. Do not plan; react._

“That’s all I’ve been doing! Reacting! I’m very good at it!”

_Then perhaps it is time you take control of your life._

“How!”

_Let go._

Since he was about to fail this simulation anyways, Luke did. He let go. He fell. He released himself completely, as he’d never dared to before.

And there was light.

Dimly, Luke was aware of his hands moving on the joystick, of a gut-twisting roll, of a curtain of lasers rocketing past, of maneuvers he hadn’t thought possible from this vessel, or himself. Dimly, he felt his thumb jab down on the ion cannons, once, twice. Dimly, he heard Zifo shouting joyful expletives in his ear. 

He wasn’t sure when they pulled the headset off him and uncurled his fingers from the controls. They said something to him, then; he only stared straight ahead and whispered inaudibly. Zifo shook him.

“Varewé! Varewé, are you all right?”

His half-shut eyes suddenly snapped wide. He gripped the flight instructor’s arm, hard. 

“Gods,” Luke whispered fearfully. “What _was_ that?”

_Palpatine’s eyes are closed, but he neither meditates nor rests. He is listening. Listening closely, thoughtfully, greedily._

_“Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes.”_

_The smile is mental rather than physical, but gruesome all the same. He is quiet; chuckles confidentially, nods. “Yes. A third Skywalker will suit me excellently…”_

_He rubs his gray-fleshed hands together._

_Training up an Emperor has its pleasures, of course._

_But apprentices…_

_Apprentices are the greatest fun of all._

_He cannot wait._

Two days passed before the repercussions of that flight surfaced. Luke knew they would; it was only a matter of time. He said nothing of it to the Emperor. Somehow, the affair did not concern him.

Besides, Palpatine probably wouldn’t believe him anyways.

On that second day news came of a Rebel fleet massing beyond the Outer Rim. Many officers passed by Luke seeking private audience with Palpatine. Luke even saw a non-human among them. At least he thought the man was an alien; he’d never encountered a blue-skinned humanoid before.

For the most part, Luke was left to his own devices that day. He roved the halls and balconies of the Palace restlessly. The expectancy swallowed him, stifled him. Something was going to happen. Of that he was sure.

This waiting, though…it was enough to drive him insane.

The summons came in the golden crevice between afternoon and evening. Luke stood facing a transparisteel wall that looked over the city, his shadow falling long and black behind. Lord Vader requests his presence, they said. He touched the wall, smiled. I know, he said.

“Luke Varewé. Be seated.”

It was not a suggestion. Luke sat. The dark lord raised a hand. “Leave us,” he rumbled to the attendants. Within the seconds the room cleared. A thick, expectant silence fell.

It was a large room, high-ceilinged, made to look larger still by the stark absence of furniture. Except, of course, for the table. A narrow slab of black marble, it was a meter wide and perhaps three long. Luke sat at one end. Darth Vader sat at the other. They each sat perfectly upright and in perfect silence, staring at each other.

Vader gave in first.

“Ask your question.” His voice, deep and solid as the marble, seemed to flow through the table to vibrate Luke’s hands. Luke removed them and crossed his arms.

“Okay. Where am I?”

“That is not the question. However, this is my personal conference hall. I rarely employ it.”

“Oh?”

A stony silence met him. It was evident that the ball was squarely in Luke’s court now. He licked his lips. This would not be easy.

“Why am I here?”

“ _That_ is the question.”

He lowered his head. “Yes.”

“Now tell me the answer.”

A sick sensation seized Luke’s chest. His head shot up. “I don’t know!”

“But you do. You would not be here if you did not.”

“I…I…”

There were only two items on the table. One was a gleaming white datapad. The other, a goblet of water. Both were in easy reach. He grasped the cup with shaking fingers and downed it, spilling water out the corners of his mouth. It was very cold. After, he wiped his face with the back of his hand. He felt slightly dizzy.

“I’m here,” he began. “I’m here…because I don’t understand.”

“Go on.”

“Because…because I felt something…did something impossible.”

“I will finish the answer. You are here because you experienced something you were told did not exist. You were lied to. That is apparent to you now. You realize that there is something beyond pure intellect that guides living creatures. You do not wish to accept it. You never have. The choice was taken from you two days ago. You realize with terrible finality what you suspected all along, that choice is an illusion, fate a reality, cause and effect synonyms for one two-sided truth: destiny. You feel manipulated. You are right. You realize that even now you are still being manipulated—by myself. Again, you are correct. There is a certain familiarity in the situation. However, the first time you struggled. Now, when the Force led you to this room, you followed docilely. You are here, Luke Varewé, because you realize at last that the only way to take control is to let go.”

Luke moved to speak and suddenly tasted warm, metallic saltiness. He had bitten through his tongue.

“There were stories,” he mumbled. “Rumors. They said you have a power…magic. The Emperor said they were superstitions, rationalizations for your military brilliance.”

“Superstition proves accurate more often than one might suppose.”

Luke did not hear the words. He was watching the white datapad, now hovering inches above the table. The gauntleted hand three meters away gesturing slightly; end over end, the square piece of plastic floated toward him. He flinched as it neared.

“Take it.” Luke did, plucking it gingerly out of the air. “Turn it on.” He did. The screen flickered on. It was blank but for the three words emblazoned in dazzling white against a black background.

_Trust Your Feelings._

For a moment he sat there trembling, the past sliding like sand from under his feet, stomach lurching in the sudden disorientation.

And then the moment passed.

“What do your feelings tell you, Varewé?” Vader probed.

Luke grinned crookedly. “My feelings say…what the hell.”

The devil-may-care attitude might have fooled Darth Vader. Luke doubted it, though. The more deeply troubled his mind, the greater dispassion he affected. A poor defense mechanism, Palpatine called it, but Luke knew no other. He wasn’t sure when the game faded into reality or when they were separate. The indifference was genuine more often than not, now, and that disturbed him. Or he felt that it should.

But today it had definitely been a game.

He lay awake for hours that night, wracked with the thousands of possible outcomes his merciless mind generated. A few were positive; most were ugly. Palpatine was smart—much smarter than Luke. Palpatine had known his apprentice for years. Palpatine would sense Luke’s new insincerity. Palpatine would retaliate.

Palpatine had _lied._

With that thought, the calculations ground to a halt.

Lied.

It drove into him like a blow to the gut. He whimpered once, very softly; clenched the bedpost until his fingernails gouged lines in the soft wood.

The Emperor had lied to him, had used him, had taken everything from him and given nothing. He cried out again softly, first in pain, then in mirthless laughter.

“’Weakness at the pit,’” he quoted. “Is this what you meant, Palace? Was my weakness an emotional attachment to Palpatine?”

_Quite._

Luke lay silently for some time as the raw inner hole sealed over and closed at last. When it was done, he sighed in relief.

“Now I am free. I will never trust again. Not even—that is, especially not Vader. So…what’s your opinion on his offer?”

_Where once germinated infinite possibility, your future has narrowed. Two choices face you now. Take the power Darth Vader offers or reject it. Live or die._

Luke laughed. “Gosh, tough choice there. I’ll have to sleep on that one.” He propped his hands behind his head. “But think about it. Vader’s no idiot. There has to be something in it for him.”

_His designs require you. Be certain that yours do not so him._

“I like that. I like that very much.” He rolled over and checked the chronos. “Kriff it! There’s an early lesson tomorrow. ‘Night, Palace.”

_Sleep well, master._

Luke was too far gone to catch the malice in the words, but his dreams were haunted.

Chapter Nine

They talked as often as they dared. He needed training, that was certain.

“He hid the Force from you,” the dark lord repeated more than once.

“Yes,” Luke agreed each time. Obviously it was all part of the plan. Whether Palpatine intended Luke to learn later or not at all was now irrelevant.

“It was a foolish maneuver,” Vader commented.

“Perhaps not,” Luke countered. “Has it occurred to you that even now we might be playing into his schemes?”

“That is not likely. Undoubtedly my Master has created contingencies for such an occurrence, but he creates contingencies for all occurrences. He would prefer to believe them all unnecessary.”

Luke was not convinced.

They could not agree on how and when to train Luke. Vader proposed elaborate secrecy. Luke scoffed at that.

“Diplomacy 101,” he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “The best way to hide something is in plain sight.”

“This is not diplomacy. This is…a war, of sorts.”

“Absolutely the same thing. Lobbyists are guerilla fighters with blackmail instead of blasters. Lord Vader, there is obviously a vast quantity of information you know that I don’t. That’s why we’re having this conversation. However, I’ve been under Palpatine’s tutelage for over six months, now. Planned or not, I know a little bit about how his mind works. Trust me on this one.”

The empty sockets of the helmet focused intently on him for a long moment.

“Perhaps you do not know him as well as you believe.”

There was history in those words, many deep, stratified layers of past. Luke brushed it aside and pressed forward with his argument.

In the end, the plan was as simple as he could have hoped. When Vader was present, they would train. On his next visit, he would provide Luke with a set of pre-recorded lessons to be viewed upon first opportunity. They would have to get by with this combination until…

“Until what?” Luke questioned.

“Until you are ready,” was all Vader would say.

Surprisingly, it appeared to work. Darth Vader remained on Coruscant for only three days before leaving to finish off the Rebel fleet. By that time, Luke could enter into a clumsy meditation, block a blaster bolt now and then, and most importantly, raise an impressive mental shield. The shields were his priority, Vader stressed over and over again. No other skill bore such significance. Without instant proficiency they would both die slow and messy deaths. Hence, Luke figured out how to shield.

It wasn’t actually very hard. He’d already learned mental discipline. What he hadn’t learned—what had been kept from him—was mental strength. With the foundation in place, subtlety already present, power slid into its natural groove with gratifying ease.

Luke opened up to the Force, and the Force opened up to him.

The months passed with little variance. There were a few tense moments when he almost let something slip, when he imagined a suspicious glint in those tired, red eyes or knowing in that raspy voice. But nothing ever came of those moments. On the whole, his life passed with structured satisfaction, if not actual joy. He found himself…content, to grow in the Force and learn more from the Emperor every day. Happiness was all well and good, but power came with its own fulfillment.

He would have been content for many more months to come had it not been for a chance meeting one spring day.

As a general rule, Mara Jade kept out of Luke’s way and Luke kept out of Mara Jade’s way. He still wasn’t quite sure what she did. Training, of course, but in what, precisely? Palpatine never volunteered the information. So far, her only specialties he knew of were courtly manners and a mean roundhouse. A special agent, then. But how special? Was she Force-sensitive? Did her training include that skill? The Emperor had implied that she was to function in a role similar to Darth Vader’s. But Luke began to doubt that. Palpatine had _not_ given Luke all the essential facets of Emperor-hood, so it followed that he had not made Mara Jade a full Sith. What, then, was she?

On that warm day in spring he found answers to some of his questions. Unfortunately, new questions resulted that were infinitely more puzzling.

Vader had presented him with a lightsaber two months ago. Of all the abilities he developed in the Force, swordplay came the most naturally to him. It had been frustrating at first. Never once had he beaten Darth Vader, and it took the taciturn Sith a month to admit no one had beaten _him_ in nearly twenty years. Still, Luke had no way of knowing how good he was quantitatively.

It was a day made for adventure. His favorite sparring room was closed for renovations, so Luke went wandering in search of another one. The trick was finding one that the Inquisitors frequented so he could use his lightsaber without excessive notice. He thanked the Force often that his features were so utterly unremarkable; even after a year in the Palace, scarcely anyone recognized him on sight.

He found the perfect place after three hours of searching. It was small, tucked into an obscure corner of a largely deserted floor, and best of all falling into disarray. No one would scrutinize him here. 

Or so he thought.

With a bit of fiddling, Luke activated the outdated sentinel droid. It seemed to be in order. He took up the proper stance, dipped into the Force…

And froze.

He was not alone.

“Come out,” he ordered sharply. “I know you’re here.”

“I wasn’t hiding.”

A slim, red-haired girl walked out of the shadows in the other side of the room. She glared at him, arms crossed. “This is my sparring room. Hasn’t the Emperor dumped enough on you?” So she didn’t know. He decided to play it cool.

“Maybe. I think I like this one, though.” _What of it?_ challenged his tone.

Her green eyes narrowed to slits. She shifted, and for the first time he noticed the silver cylinder dangling on her hip. “Get out, you wretch,” she snarled.

Oh, he liked this girl. Palpatine was mildly revolting. Vader was distant and impersonal. Everyone else either tiptoed around him or ignored his existence. This Jade…she was something else. He grinned wickedly at her and ignited his lightsaber. She’d beat him for sure. Who cared?

“Make me.”

Sparks leapt up in her eyes. With a _snap-hiss,_ the cylinder flew to her hand and sprouted a violet blade. She charged at him with a precise, lighting-fast stroke. He blocked it clumsily. The battle was drawn.

What began as entertainment for Luke quickly degenerated into something far more potent. She fought much differently than Vader, for one thing. Faster. More improvisation, greater fluidity. Additionally, she genuinely wanted to kill him. Only his raw strength kept him from being skewered early on.

But it wasn’t just the thrusts and parries themselves. As the duel wore on, he began to feel it. Intensity. Her hatred. The anger and confusion and misery that lay between them both. At first the emotions were only hers; Luke kept himself locked beyond all sight. He wasn’t used to this level of concentration, however. Soon enough the friction ground his shields to a brittle shell, and all that he hid from throbbed close, so close to the surface, and stars, it _hurt._

Cold wind hit the void in Luke’s heart, now gaping open to memory. He gritted his teeth. A thin sheen of sweat broke out over his forehead and his lightsaber crashed furiously. Now he remembered why he avoided this girl. Even when they passed in the hall, he felt it. Just a nudge. The delicate flaking away of his defenses…

The pain of his past tore at him, and he hated her for it.

She was taken off guard by his sudden frenzy. Under other circumstances, he probably would have lost. But not this time. 

“You’re not going to win,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Want to bet?” she panted.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he came at her with a complicated series of attacks and while she dealt with those, very neatly reached out with the Force and tripped her. She dropped hard, but not before routing his fancy sword work and twisting the saber out of his grasp. Hers flew from her hand as she fell. He was on top of her in a second, using all of his weight to pin her down. 

The sudden silence was deafening.

Luke studied her throat. Her face, those eyes, those intense, soul-raking eyes he could not take right now. She had pale skin; under the surface he could see indigo veins and the pulse at her jaw, rising and falling. He smelled her—mostly sweat and human body, but fragrance, too…it was an earthy smell, not precisely pleasant, but magnetic all the same.

“I’m not in control,” he hissed, and heard desperation in his voice, desperation and savagery and a strange sort of wanting buried beneath them both. “You make me…lose myself.” Luke could distinguish the individual beads of sweat glistening above her lips. That was how close they lay. “I’m not in control,” he repeated. “I always have to…to be…you can’t to do this to me. I won’t let you.”

“And how do you think I feel about it?” she growled back. He flinched in surprise. “Always, you’ve kept me off balance. Taken my place. Maybe I like you where you are.” 

The double-meaning of the statement struck them at the same time, and suddenly, they weren’t scheming warriors locked in a power struggle. They were teenagers, and were…just locked.

Luke and Mara blushed at the same time and rolled away from each other. He sat on the mat for a moment, legs sprawled awkwardly. She darted up immediately, extinguished her lightsaber, swiped her hair away from her face, turned away. He examined her profile as she stood above and a little apart from him. Slender…rigidly vertical, as if in pain or terror…angular lines splitting the sunlight...softened, here and there, hints of future curves…

… _beautiful_ …

The thought slashed deep in his mind like cold iron. Splitting his defenses, the way her white shoulder split the light…

“I have a class.” The words came out haltingly and he heard the lie. “I have to go.” She could have just left. She didn’t have to make an excuse. They both knew it.

This time, though, neither of them blushed. She took a half-step; stopped; turned to him, brushed a lock of shorter hair behind her ear in a quick, slanting motion.

“We could spar again. It would help both of us.” He was mildly surprised to discover the voice was his. More surprising was the way it sounded: jerky, shy—did it crack? His voice changed a year ago.

Most surprising of all, however, was Mara’s face.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

She was chewing on her lip.

Once more, the flick of fingers at her hair, even though it was already tucked securely, and then—

“Sure.” That was all. One word. He might have heard incorrectly, and there wasn’t a chance of finding out; she was gone before her mouth closed.

The steady thrum of his lightsaber was suddenly loud, white noise no longer. He flicked it off with the Force.

_Varewé?_

A questing tendril pressed into his thoughts. Before answering, he sucked in a deep breath, cool air rushing down his throat; held it; allowed himself to tremble; wondered why he burned from inside out; wondered…

And let go of the breath.

_Everything’s fine, Vader._

_Everything is fine._

_Just fine._

They did spar again. Not often. Not with any regularity. But they knew, each time. They knew it would happen again.

The events of that first time were never repeated. The second time was slightly uncomfortable, but only slightly. The third time, not at all. They pushed each other, gave no ground, fought dirty when they had to and cleanly when convenient. Vader confronted him about it one day.

“You compromise yourself with this association,” he warned. “Jade is his tool. She cannot be trusted.”

Luke gave a lopsided smile. “Whoever said anything about trusting her?”

After a long, measuring stare, the dark lord nodded curtly and talked of other things.

She was not a friend. He didn’t even really like her.

But for some reason, as uncomfortable as she made him, as infuriating and annoying and impertinent as she could be, Luke wanted Mara Jade in his life.

_The wind is loud today. There is a low, electric rumble to the every-day howling, which means that yet another dust storm approaches. Obi-Wan Kenobi grunts with displeasure and goes around sealing every crack in the hut with scraps of fabric. He does not want sand in his bedding again. Also, he expects a transmission today. An important transmission._

_Obi-Wan flings open a shutter and glares at the darkening sky._

_“Don’t you dare,” he instructs it sternly. “There are matters of galactic import to be discussed.”_

_Behind him, a small beep sounds. He shuts the window securely, latching it behind him, and draws a deep breath. Straightening his shoulders, he kneels down to reach the awkwardly placed comm receiver. And flips it on._

_A wrinkled, impossibly old face fills his vision._

_“We have a new enemy,” the hoarse voice informs him without preamble. Obi-Wan nods._

_“Luke Skywalker.”_

_“The son of Skywalker must not become a Sith. Another Vader, the galaxy does not require.”_

_“I fear it to be worse. He may be another Palpatine.”_

_“Destroyed, he must be. Wait until it is too late we must not.”_

_“If he could be turned, he would be a great asset.”_

_“Yes…yes.” Yoda taps his gimmer stick against an unseen ground thoughtfully. “Can it be done?”_

_“He will join us…or die,” the Jedi says calmly. Yoda scrutinizes him with a narrow gaze. Obi-Wan keeps his face still. The words he spoke were the truth, though the mask of serenity was not. Yoda will find no fault in his purity of purpose._

_“Allow yourself attachment, you must not,” the ancient Master cautions at last. “Danger lies in that path. Already too close you are to the girl-child.”_

_“It cannot be helped.”_

_Yoda nods at the inevitability of his apprentice’s voice. “Done, that is, and undone it cannot be. Train her we must not unless no other hope remains. But your own heart examine, Master Kenobi. If unable to detach yourself from the son of Skywalker you are, complete his training I must.”_

_“I have Leia.” Kenobi sighs and looks away, past the boarded window to a place only he can see. “I have no need of Luke. I will train him, Master Yoda, and I will not fail this time. He will be my student and nothing more.”_

_“Remains to be seen, that does.” Yoda’s voice is grim and more than a little skeptical. “Remains to be seen.”_

_The transmission flickers out._

_Outside, the wind begins to pick up. Obi-Wan closes his eyes and listens._

_It offers no comfort._

Spring glided into summer. One day Luke paused in a conversation with Palpatine and smiled slightly.

“What is it, boy?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just one year today since I came to Coruscant.” His class would be graduating as full-fledged senators now. Garmonsaw Fortee crossed his mind. He wondered if their paths would cross.

The wondering lasted only a fractional second. Luke swept the entire affair away and concentrated on more relevant matters.

A year might have passed for Gartee.

A lifetime had passed for Luke.

_“Ben.”_

_The old man draws deeply on the Force before he looks up. He knows that tone. Knows it only too well, despite having heard it only once before and ten years in the past. On that occasion, a barely-seven year old Leia had carefully shredded all of Beru’s heirloom linens in order to have bandages for her toys. He still remembers the terror in her eyes when she ran to him._

_Remembers all the more vividly because the same terror lies in them now._

_“What is it, child?”_

_“Not so much of a child now.” Her voice carries sad wisdom just barely edged with hysteria. “Ben, I’m in trouble.”_

Chapter Ten

_One year later…_

_Three men sit in shadow and gaze into a future both dark and dangerous. Each sees a different path; each harbors different hopes and schemes. One thread alone their visions share._

_The key._

_The balance point upon which all else rests._

_The last hope for them all._

_For nearly eighteen years he has grown and sharpened into a weapon worth wielding. Now he has grown enough. Now the shadowed future tips tantalizingly close to reality. Now, at last, it is time._

_Darth Vader: It is time he knows the truth. He is ready. We are ready._

_Obi-Wan: It is time to set the deception in motion._

_Palpatine: It is time. Time for what is hidden to come to light, for what is light to be made dark._

_Darth Vader: It is time for a beginning_

_Obi-Wan: It is time for the end._

_Palpatine: It is time to continue what has been and what always will be._

_Time is running out._

Luke tensed, startled. Months had passed since the voice deigned to speak with him.

“Palace,” he said. “Hi. I was starting to think you’d disinherited me.”

_Beware. It is the denouement._

“To what, my life?” The lazy smile seemed out of place beneath his sober blue eyes. “Gosh, you have been out of it. The great blue yonder has never sounded more attractive. Anything has to beat this plane of existence. Unfortunately, I think you’re in for some remodeling, Palace my old friend. Your age is showing. See, I _can’t_ die. Apparently I have some destiny to fulfill first.”

_Fatalism suits you ill._

“And termites suit _you_ ill,” Luke rejoined. “Literally. Ill. Get it?”

_This new defense is…unappealing. Humor is a weak shield to hide behind. It is passive. It is of the light._

At that, he perked up. “Am I finally in for a sordid revelation of your true identity? Please, withhold a little longer. After our long history of sleepy enigma I’ll be reeling from those last hints for weeks.”

_Adolescence. The ultimate curse, that the brilliance of youth is encased in youth._

Luke thought he detected a certain familiar petulance and he grinned. “You’re Darth Vader, aren’t you? That last remark was distinctly Vader-ish in quality.”

What he got in return for that bit of insolence was the architectural equivalent of a snort.

_Hardly._

“Which is exactly how our mutual friend would respond. I’ve got your number, Voice. You can’t hide from me now.”

_I have never hidden what I am, except in plain sight._

For some unknown reason, that statement disturbed Luke beyond hope of a snappy comeback. The Palace took full advantage of his momentary retreat.

_Long ago I chose you. My designs never falter. You bear in you the makings of a great ruler. But know this: you are not our last hope. There is another._

“Another?”

_Beware._

Luke pondered this for a second, then shrugged. He still had destiny on his side. And if not…well, that was hardly a disadvantage to him, was it now? The ‘fatalism’ had not been idle bluffing. Recklessness, both of his mentors called it. Luke preferred to think of it as his personal dare to fate. _Come and get me!_ So far, the cosmos hadn’t taken him up on his word. Luke was starting to become fed up. After a year of preparing for it, he had decided his destiny sounded more unappealing than ever. Oh, he was ready for it. He could tackle ruling the galaxy and performing whatever dastardly deed Vader asked—killing Palpatine, probably. But he didn’t want to.

If the opportunity came to skip out on all three, Palps, Vader and the Force—Luke would. Gleefully.

He wondered what the Palace would think about that.

Mara winced as she adjusted the sleeve of her gown to hide the burn. Varewé did that to her—just before she creamed him. She grinned at herself in the mirror, relishing the memory of his expression. Truly priceless.

She leaned over to dab a shimmering green cosmetic in the crease of her eyelid. Her master needed Countess Claria to bamboozle a wayward Moff, so out she came with full paraphernalia. It would be weeks before she returned to Coruscant. “I hate him,” she reminded herself. “I hate him, but I’m going to miss him.” Weird, but life was like that sometimes.

“Life is seldom what one expects.”

Suddenly Mara saw the other reflection in the mirror, half-substantial, a specter in the shadows behind. The brush dropped from her hand. Her breath came in sharply.

“ _You._ ”

“Me.”

Out of nowhere a needle flashed into being and sank into her upper arm. As the floor tilted up and fog began to gather, Mara Jade said the dirtiest word she knew.

The hard black eyes twinkled. 

Darth Vader’s return was unlooked for by Luke.

“I thought you were inspecting that secret project,” he stated, falling in step with the dark lord’s long strides. 

“I was,” Vader rumbled. “I am not anymore.”

I noticed, Luke wanted to say. “When can we meet?” he asked instead.

The billowing black cape flattened suddenly as the Sith stopped in mid-stride, hand reaching up to rest on a doorframe. His answer was slow in coming.

“Tonight.” Perhaps it was a trick of acoustics, but it seemed to Luke that the respirator slowed, became laborious. “Yes. Tonight. The north tower, beyond the gardens.”

“North tower. Got it.”

“Good.” Vader raised a hand in dismissal, and Luke turned to leave. A thought struck him.

“Do I need my lightsaber?”

The dark lord considered this. “No. Not for this lesson.” Without further acknowledgment of his pupil, he swept away. Luke watched him go, puzzled.

For a man as simple as Darth Vader, Luke found him extraordinarily confusing. From what he gathered, their relationship was an unusual one for users of the Force. For one, they had absolutely nothing of a personal connection. Given his previous experiences, Luke was chary of anything that could leave him vulnerable, and Vader seemed equally eager to keep their interactions professional. Luke could not help suspecting, however, that Vader…felt something, something he had hidden scrupulously.

Something Luke had an idea he might find out tonight. 

Mara had been drugged many times in her life. Never had she woken so instantly, or with such a headache. One moment she was falling; the next, she was excruciatingly conscious. In a strange bed. In stuncuffs.

Trying to ignore the pain, she took stock of her surroundings. There was not much to see. It was just a room, small and plainly furnished with heavy curtains that blocked out all light. Curtains implied a window, which implied an exit…she shifted experimentally. Fortunately, all her limbs appeared to be attached, though now it wasn’t just her head throbbing. _Okay._ _Step one, roll onto the floor. Step two, get over to the window. Step three…step three is open to improvisation._

“Don’t even try it. The window’s barred.” 

Mara craned her neck in the direction of the voice.

“Stang, Melgida,” she croaked tiredly. “You do have a way of throwing a hydrospanner into things.”

“We all have our special gifts.” The former senator rose from the chair in the corner. “Get up. It’s time to go.”

Despite herself, Mara felt a surge of fear. There was no telling what this deranged woman might do, and Mara was utterly in her power. That familiar grim smile creased Melgida’s face.

“No worries, Jade. We just want to tell you a story.”

“We?” She struggled upright and fought off a wave of nausea. “By the way, where the hell am I? What do you want with me? And…” She thought. “What time is it?” Her internal chrono was hopelessly skewed.

The tall woman strode over to the bed and hauled her up by one arm. Her fingers were very strong. Mara winced.

“I see no problem in answering those questions. ‘We’ refers to members of the renegade military organization I belong to. You are in one of our safehouses, the back bedroom, to be precise. We want you to betray the Empire and join us. It is now shortly after midnight. Satisfied?”

Mara considered that as she stumbled through the narrow hallway.

“Short answer? No. And I don’t think you just want to tell me a story.”

Melgida laughed, the sound brusque and crisp as Mara remembered. “I always liked that about you. If only you weren’t so sharp. We might have chosen someone else, and you would have been free to carry on your little lackey lifestyle.”

They were passing an open door. Mara swung out her free arm and latched onto the frame with a deathgrip. 

“That’s not entirely true,” she grunted. “You went after Luke Varewé first, right? I’m second choice no matter how you slice it.”

The former senator’s face turned to stone. Deliberately, she peeled Mara’s fingers from the doorframe and started moving forward again. It was a good twenty seconds before she spoke. When she did, her voice was cold.

“Be that as it may, you are our only choice now. Remember that. It will bear greater significance before this night is out.” They stopped; it was the end of the hallway. A door panel gleamed in front of them. Melgida released her. “One way or the other, Mara Jade, your life will never be the same again.” She keyed the door open.

Luke waited in the chill night air. He wore a heavy dark cloak that blunted the wind’s edge, but his face was cold. Under the cloak, he fingered his empty belt-loop. It was true that he never carried the lightsaber openly. Why, then, did he feel so unbalanced without it tonight?

Darth Vader was late. To his closest estimation, it was near or after midnight now. He had been waiting here on the roof of the tower for a good hour and a half.

“Maybe the lesson’s patience,” he grumbled to himself, wrapping the cloak tighter. “Or How to Survive in Harsh Environmental Conditions Without a Weapon.”

It wouldn’t be a bad place to wait if the night were brighter, Luke mused. The tower was a curiosity, self-consciously stylistic and desperately trying to be modern. All it really succeeded in was standing out from the dozens of uniform spires rising from the Palace. That was why its only designation was North Tower, when all the others were called by more specific names. Not that anyone ever came here, or even considered its existence. It stood directly above a maintenance unit populated entirely by droids. Besides, it was off-limits. The head of security deemed it unsafe for use and summarily fired the visionary architect shortly after its construction. Luke had to admit the logic of the decision.

There were no walls.

Or railing.

Or anything to prevent a seven-hundred meter plummet if you got too close to the edge. In essence, the tower was a massive prism of stone that rose straight into the air without ornamentation of any kind. The roof, where Luke waited, was a perfectly flat geometric platform, an archaic trapdoor its only feature.

He fingered the round loop where his lightsaber so infrequently hung. Below the trapdoor, he could hear the heavy footsteps of Darth Vader. A cloud passed over the weak sliver of moon so that the darkness suddenly thickened.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Luke said to himself.

They sat before her in a half-circle of chairs, the committee of traitors who held her life in their folded hands. She was cuffed to her own chair. A man had protested, but Melgida shot him a withering glare and asked him if _he_ wished to hold a blaster steady until Jade capitulated. The man glowered back but subsided. After checking to make sure Mara wasn’t going anywhere, the former senator took a seat of her own at the edge of the circle. All heads turned toward her—four heads in all, not counting Mara’s, which she kept pointed angrily ahead.

“Allow me to introduce you to my colleagues. Each of us has a story to tell you, a piece of a whole. Each story is connected to the next…and to you.” Melgida addressed Mara in a grave, formal tone. Mara thought of several witty replies to this but decided on profound silence. She had perfected the art of making non-sound the loudest and most scathing rebuttal of all.

Unfortunately, such subtleties seemed lost on Twansa Melgida. After waiting a few seconds, she began the round of introductions.

“To my far left is Lieutenant Garmonsaw Fortee III of the Imperial Fleet. You may have met him; he was a DiploY intern here two years ago. Obviously he is no longer involved in politics. Next to him is Princess Vichae Organa, daughter of Senator Bail Organa and the late Queen Breha of Alderaan. To her left is one-time senator Bel Iblis of Corellia. Obviously he is not dead, as publicly presumed. In the chair beside me is Halla Melgida, my sister…

…And the former Emperor’s Hand.”

For a long time, Darth Vader seemed content to gaze into the distance, hands clasped behind his back. Two years ago Luke would have fidgeted. As it was, he nearly gave in to the urge. The growing uneasiness gnawed at him. They needed to proceed, and quickly.

“Vader,” he said quietly. “What is the lesson?”

If not for the measured hiss of the respirator, the Sith would have melted entirely into the night, soundless and black as he was. He did not answer right away.

Almost compulsively, Luke rubbed the belt loop between thumb and forefinger. The Palace was right, he realized with a cold twist of hyper-awareness. Time _was_ running out. But for who?

The edge of the roof suddenly looked a great deal closer.

“I misled you,” Vader said at last. His voice had a peculiar quality tonight that Luke could not define. Slower…less clipped at the edges…contemplative, perhaps. No. That was not it. Melancholy? Surely not. “I am not here to teach you a skill tonight, Luke. You have learned enough from me. There will be no more lessons.”

The words exploded in his mind like tiny thermal detonators.

_No more lessons_

_Why are we here_

_Learned enough_

_Luke._

_He called me Luke…_

_“_ You are here so I may tell you a story. That is all. When I am done, you may take what I have said and do with it what you wish. Only listen until it is finished…”

Was he… _asking_?

“Ah…sure,” Luke stumbled. “Sure. I’m listening.”

Vader turned slightly away. His cape caught the wind and furled out behind, undulating darkness against a backdrop even darker. “It begins many years ago.”

_In the mind of evil no dreams are born. There is a sanctity to slumber; it is a gift to the troubled and weary, a source of peace. Evil ones reject peace altogether. They cannot abide it. It burns them. When a dark one sleeps, only the body enters a state of rest. The mind never fully leaves the conscious state, never ceases its plottings and ill thoughts. If it did, if it surrendered completely to the naked soul within, the body would die. For that is what dreams are: manifestations of who we are, unencumbered by reason or self-deceit, free to roam the spirit. The dreams of an evil soul would ravage all they touched, even the dreamer._

_An old man lies in waking slumber. He dreams no dreams. His breathing is even but his mind is alert. The beast within is hungry tonight, and Palpatine is determined the blood it drinks will not be his. So he sleeps, and he communes with the guiding voice, and he does not dream._

_It is the voice that warns him of what he has guessed for a year. It is the whispered suggestion that causes him to wake. It is his own evil heart that forms the course he will take this night, refines the last details of his magnificent scheme._

_But it his mind, his straining mind, weary from decade upon decade without sleep…his mind that drives him forward._

_Nearly twenty years ago he attempted this. He failed. His salvation was stolen from him on the night his apprentice was stripped of his glory. Now, at last, is the chance to make reparation for that greatest of all disappointments._

_His salvation is ripe for the plucking._

_And his apprentice…his new apprentice is more glorious than Vader ever was._

_“My old friend,” Palpatine mutters as he drapes the hood over his face. “What wonderful children you sired.”_

_One of those children will die tonight. Palpatine knows it, though the future is too fractured for him to see which child it will be._

_“I will lose one of my Skywalkers before the dawn,” the Emperor muses. “A pity. But either way…”_

_He bares his rotting teeth and laughs and laughs and laughs._

Chapter Eleven

“I was his best friend.”

The sentence hung in the air, bitter and at the same time wistful. Mara caught herself searching Fortee’s face hungrily. This person knew Varewé…before? _What was he like_? She wanted to ask. _Did he laugh? Was he ever silly or forgetful or…human? Was he always so closed? Tell me, Garmonsaw Fortee, former best friend of the man that I…like. To spar with, that is. Not that I actually like him. I don’t, as a matter of fact. I just want to know everything about him…_

“Luke Varewé and I met five years before we came to Coruscant. We were ten years old, nearly eleven. That was about all we had in common. I had begged to attend Diplomatic school; Luke was dumped there.”

Mara cleared her throat. Fortee paused, waiting. At the beginning of all this, Melgida had invited Mara to pose any questions she chose, as long as they were not solely intended to provoke.

“What do you mean—dumped?” 

“Dumped,” Fortee repeated. “His mother couldn’t stand him. It was weird. He never talked about it much, so I hardly know anything. But they used school to get him out of the house. He never wanted to go into politics.”

Varewé, the consummate politician, the protégé of Palpatine—not interested in politics?

“Hmm,” Mara murmured. “Interesting. So…what _was_ he interested in?”

Fortee’s dark brown eyes warmed slightly. It was clear he was remembering circumstances far happier than those of the present.

“Piloting.” he said, and laughed. Mara liked the laugh. It was easy and infectious, as if good-humor was his natural state and solemnity sat on him with discomfort. “He always talked about getting out of school and running off to the Academy. Damn, nothing turned out right.” The laugh came to a choking halt. “Here I am, an officer in the fleet, and there he is…is…”

“Continue, Lieutenant,” Melgida interrupted sharply. She had dropped any pretense of congeniality. “And leave out the cute personal details, if you please.”

“Certainly.” Fortee’s shoulder’s straightened. He avoided Mara’s eyes. “Shortly after our arrival on Coruscant, Luke participated in a galactic debate, which he won.”

Mara brushed gazes with Melgida. The former senator tightened her lips and looked away. Oblivious, Fortee went on. “I was there. My motives weren’t entirely loyal—honestly, I don’t even remember what he said. I was too busy watching his opponent.”

“Vichae Organa,” Mara observed. For the first time, she noticed how close Garmonsaw Fortee and the Princess sat. The lieutenant looked at her in surprise.

“You were there?”

“Yes.” She remembered that night very well.

“At any rate, I have no trouble recalling what happened afterwards. The Emperor entered the hall and made a beeline for Luke. They talked. I couldn’t hear what was said. When he left, Luke followed. For two weeks I saw nothing of my friend. We met by chance one day in a library. He seemed…normal, at least on the surface. I knew nothing at the time of the danger surrounding him. We were kids. I wish I could have warned him, done something before it was too late…but all I did was joke about it.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Garmonsaw.” Mara looked up at the new voice; Halla Melgida had spoken for the first time. Her inflections were hard, but they lacked the ruthlessness of Twansa’s. “Palpatine is more powerful than you or I will ever be. What he wants, he takes. What he wishes to discard, he does.”

Since the explosive round of introductions, Mara had avoided looking at Halla Melgida as well as she could. It helped to keep the simmering panic at bay; helped her hold up the pillars of her universe, toppling once more. Now, as if drawn by a magnet, her gaze fastened on the older woman’s face.

Dark eyes in a horribly scarred face stared back at her calmly.

Mara flinched and turned away.

“Thank you,” Fortee said quietly. “I know that, rationally. But still…” he gathered himself together. “The next and final time I interacted with Luke was at the Senator’s Ball. That night we heard that that his family had been murdered.”

“Murdered,” Mara whispered. Memories, images, sensations, poured into her head from that time so long ago… “A textbook case. Textbook.”

A textbook murder.

Fortee looked at her peculiarly, but she waved him on. Her stomach had begun to churn. “I told you that his relationship with his family was poor. But after that night he was never the same. I saw him a few times, in the days that followed. He never seemed to notice me. Once I stopped him in the hall, grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him. He looked right through me…like I was a ghost. After I let go he just kept on walking as if it never happened. His mind was…hurt, I think. Palpatine wanted it that way. You always saw them together, then. The Emperor looking like a smug cat and Luke looking like droid. His eyes, Jade. You should have seen his eyes in those days. First they were these big blank holes…”

“And then they filled,” Mara finished, voice distant. “With ice.” Fortee blinked.

“Yes. That’s it exactly. Ice. Are they…”

Melgida raised a warning hand, but Mara cut in quickly.

“No. Not always.” She remembered the burn on her arm and smiled tremulously.

A long, soft sigh escaped the lieutenant. _Thank you,_ he said with his expression.

“After that summer I couldn’t stomach the thought of returning. My stay in the Empire’s nerve-center had sickened me. Of course Father was curious why I was no longer interested in politics. What could I say? I told him everything. And what are the odds, it turns out my father is secretly a member of a rebellion. It turns out he’d just been waiting for the day I would come to him with this very problem. After hearing him out, I decided to join his people—on one condition. I would not be a plant in Coruscant. I would not serve in the Senate. So, Father pulled a few strings, got me on the fast track in the fleet, and all at once I was in the position to strike back at the Empire a little.”

“You’re a mole.”

“Right. And I’ve just dug up the best dirt of all, Jade. Do you want to know what it is?”

Mara leaned forward. “Yes.”

He smiled at her, teeth brilliantly white. She realized that many would consider this man handsome.

“Has your master ever mentioned a little thing he likes to call the Death Star?”

“I was married, once.”

Hidden by the darkness, Luke let his mouth form a round o. _That_ was sort of bizarre to imagine. Vader seemed to catch his reaction and made a sound that might have been a chuckle.

“I was not always as I am now. Once I looked very much like you.”

A sudden pause.

“Do you take after your father, Varewé?”

“No, actually,” Luke answered, puzzled.

“Interesting…I know that your mother looks nothing like you.”

Something about the way he said that…Luke’s heartbeat picked up. “How?” he asked softly. “How do you know that?”

Vader turned to face him. In the faint starlight, Luke could just make out the reflective curves of the mask and the dark pits of the eye sockets. The wind died abruptly. Something was waiting with bated breath…time, perhaps…

“I know because my wife was your mother’s sister. I married Padmé Naberrie.”

Luke strained to make out the dark figure before him, searching desperately for a sign that Vader was joking. Anything to convince him that he was not alone with a madman.

“But Vader,” he said evenly. “I have no aunt on my mother’s side. I’ve never heard of this Padmé. It is true that Naberrie is my mother’s maiden name, but it’s a common one on Naboo. You must be mistaken.”

“How is this possible? She was a Queen.”

“Oh. Maybe that explains it. I’m aware that Naboo once had a monarchy, but no one from my generation knows anything about it. There’s a law. Well, other people probably bend the rules a little, but my parents certainly didn’t.” He smiled. “Mother always enjoyed being sub-Governor’s wife a little too much. I’m pretty sure she would have let it slip if she was connected with royalty.”

Vader stared at him. Suddenly, a crack of uncertainty ate its way into Luke’s composure. Surely he was in the right. Surely he had not been lied to from infancy…

 _And why not?_ memory whispered back. _There have always been lies from the ones you trusted._

Luke chuckled stiffly. “Come now, my Lord. Why would they build such an elaborate conspiracy just to keep me from knowing about a relative?”

“I am beginning to wonder,” Vader rumbled, “precisely that.”

Garmonsaw Fortee’s story appeared to be finished. He sat back and glanced at the young woman beside him.

Vichae Organa looked every inch a princess. Her blonde hair lay in sleek coils against her head, and the white of her dress contrasted well with the sharp grey of her eyes. She held her head high; her posture regally erect. When she spoke, it was in crisp Basic free from any trace of an Alderaanian accent.

“I was a member of the Rebel Alliance from the time I was ten years old. My father never could keep his “other work” hidden from me, and after a few years of rebuffing my attempts to join in he gave up. I loved Father, and I loved what we did. The Empire was a festering disease destroying the galaxy. We were the cure.”

“A little pompous, don’t you think?” Mara asked dryly. 

The Princess looked blank. Mara rolled her eyes. “Oh, forget it. Please, your highness, go on.”

Melgida shot Mara a dirty look, but sarcasm seemed utterly lost on Vichae Organa. She nodded graciously and continued. 

“As I grew older, Father took me into his confidence more and more. I treasured his trust. My mother had died when I was very young, and in those days I was often lonely. Royalty is a sacred role that demands much sacrifice.”

“I’m sure your deprivations were staggering.”

This time she got it. The blonde girl pinched her lips together and peered at Mara through narrowed eyes. “You have no idea what my life was like. You can’t comprehend the pressure…”

Halla Melgida’s almost-familiar voice bit into the air like vibroblade.

“Actually,” she said coolly. “She can.”

Fortee let out a shaky laugh and put a restraining hand on Organa’s arm.

“Come on, Vi. Don’t let her get to you. Jade’s baiting you because she’s afraid and knows she can gain the upper hand if you’re flustered.” That was what his voice said, soothing and calm. With his eyes he begged Mara to listen to the story and overlook the faults of the teller. Mara sighed and allowed him an imperceptible nod.

Looking somewhat mollified, Organa went on.

“Even as far into his council as I had come, there were some secrets Father kept to himself. I saw hints of them. Calls in the night. Holos of people I’d never seen before. Names scrawled on scraps of flimsi. Eventually, I pieced together enough information to confront him. Apparently my father was deeply involved in a second conspiracy, this one of a far more personal nature than the Alliance. Did you know that I am adopted, Ms. Jade?”

The question startled Mara. “No,” she answered, puzzled. A strange expression filmed over the Princess’ grey eyes, something between bitterness and sardonic amusement. “Not many do. I have always known, but the full story remained a secret until I pressed it from him. And what a secret it was. You see, on the night my real mother died, two other children were orphaned. The mother’s name was Padmé Naberrie, a fellow dissenting senator and dear friend of my father’s.

“The father’s name was Darth Vader.”

“I knew my wife would die. Foolishly, I trusted Palpatine’s overtures and eventual promises. I was…weak, in those days. He hid his true nature from me easily.”

“He’s good at that,” Luke muttered.

“He is a master of deception and illusion. Never underestimate him, Varewé. You are strong, but overconfidence may yet be your downfall.”

“Hey, I thought this wasn’t a lesson.”

“It is not. I merely want you to…”

“ _What?_ ” The terrible, burning urgency constricted Luke’s chest like a metal band. “To do what, Lord Vader?”

“Patience, Luke. All will be revealed in time.”

“Time.” He closed his eyes and released a shuddering breath. “Time is something we’re short on here.”

A straggling gasp leaked from Mara’s diaphragm. Her hand made an abortive leap to her mouth, the motion curtailed by the binders

“ _Vader?_ ” she whispered. “Impossible!”

“He was not always the monster he is now.” The new voice tipped crazily into the pieces of Mara’s scattered thoughts. A knowing voice. A voice that had lived before she was born, that had spoken more secrets than she dreamed of and kept silence on countless more. The voice of Bel Iblis. “I remember when he was Anakin Skywalker, the hero without fear, greatest Jedi in living memory.”

Vader…a Jedi. If it hadn’t been for the chair, Mara’s knees would have buckled. The surprises just kept coming.

A small, pleased smile curled Organa’s mouth. “At this point he had renounced the Jedi, of course. In fact, his wife died at his own hand. Another Jedi rescued her before the end. My father helped all he could, but there was nothing anyone could do. Senator Naberrie only lived long enough to give birth to a son and daughter.

“Darth Vader could never know of the children, of course. It would be too dangerous. Each had his potential for his evil. The girl was taken to Skywalker’s family on an obscure outer rim planet. The boy…” Organa’s face hardened slightly. “The boy nearly became Prince Organa.”

Mara’s wits struggled to keep up with the volley of startling information. “You mean,” she reiterated, “Bail Organa nearly adopted the son of Darth Vader.”

“Yes,” The Princess snapped. “That’s what I mean. He and my mother actually kept the infant for a week before the Jedi decided Luke would be better off with his real family.”

The last remaining trickle of air in Mara’s lungs escaped in a soft hiss.

“ _No._ ”

Organa’s smile widened. “Oh, are the two of you friends? I never did understand what people see in Luke Varewé—or should I say Luke Skywalker? My father…I think my father never stopped thinking of him as his son. The Naberries had turned Imperial loyalists and forbade any contact, but he tried his best to keep tabs on Luke. Then Varewé disappeared. For five years Father had no idea where he was. Father and that Jedi considered themselves protectors, of sorts, and as he told me of his search I remembered that time in my life, the harried look on his face that never went away.”

Mara’s mind had begun to function again. “And then,” she said slowly, “he found him. Here.”

“Yes.” A tiny, victorious glint shone in the grey eyes. “He found him, and all their worst fears were realized. The son of Darth Vader was in Palpatine’s clutches. Short of kidnapping him, an impossible feat in the palace, my father was helpless. He had to release him. Willingly or not, Luke Varewé was now one of the enemy. He never mentioned his name again until the day I confronted him.”

Mara studied the other girl’s face and found an insight curdling like spoiled milk.

“And you were glad,” she murmured. “Because there was no shadow son anymore. Your father was finally yours.”

Two spots of red bloomed on Organa’s cheeks.

Many people are attractive when they’re angry, Mara reflected. She herself was. It was strangely satisfying to find out that Princess Vichae Organa was not of those people.

Luke listened attentively as Vader unraveled the secrets of the past, the birth of his twisted connection to Palpatine. It was a dark tale, to be sure. The Sith skimmed over his personal life, but Luke gathered he had been a very different person. In between the hard, glossy words trickled a dust that might have once been hope. But curiously, Luke could summon up no sensation but interest. He wondered if his capacity for empathy and emotion had finally callused over.

Mara Jade crossed his mind briefly.

 _Stop it,_ he told himself. _She couldn’t ever feel something back, in any case. I annoy her too much._

Luke had a sudden vision of Mara after their last duel, one long leg pinning his chest to the floor, red-gold hair flying in all directions, tunic plastered to her body with sweat, green eyes laughing, laughing…

“After I pledged myself to him, Lord Sidious revealed his plan to me. His master Plageuris had indeed discovered the secret to prolonging life. You know yourself, however, that our master offers hope in one hand and crushes it with the other.”

“Yes.” Luke looked over his shoulder at the quiet trapdoor. “I know. Please, Lord Vader, hurry.”

The Dark Lord paused, modulated breathing filling the space. Luke heard the question in the silence but chose not to answer it. After a few moments, Vader nodded once, starlight flashing off his helmet in a quick arc. “As you wish. The cure was as ghastly as I should have suspected. Quite simply, he proposed to rip Padmé’s soul from her dying body and plant it in another. For this service he exacted a price even more terrible. She bore a child in her, Luke. The Emperor desired our little one. It was an impossible choice. For the prolonging of my wife’s existence, this monster demanded my child…for the prolonging of his own.”

Harshly spoken, the ugly words stagnated in the air.

“I see.” Luke closed his eyes tightly. It made sense now. Everything. Palpatine’s forceful interest in him, the death of his family, the way the Force had been hidden from him. The Emperor had simply been cultivating a fresh body.

Luke saw the hideous truth and it left him as emotionless as ever. “I see. But not everything went as planned, I take it?”

“No.” In the darkness, Luke could see Vader’s gauntleted hands curling into fists. “I could not make that choice. The only way was to destroy Palpatine and save Padmé myself. But I made a fatal mistake. This life, Luke, the world of power…it is poison.” He said the word impassively, but Luke sensed the rage beneath. “I should have healed her and released her. She would have lived…I would have ruled alone, as it should be, always knowing she was safe and alive…but I was unforgivably foolish. I tried to take her with me into this life.”

“She died because of it.” Luke said abruptly. “She and the child both, didn’t they?”

“Yes.” 

Small and hard as a crystal, the syllable bored into his mind. _Yes._ Only one question remained now, and it thrummed like a live thing against the yes.

He opened his mouth.

The voices were relentless. Pelting her with a volley of truth, one after the other, never pausing to let her battered senses rest. Now it was Bel Iblis, the white-haired man with lively, intelligent eyes and a voice as ruthless as the rest. Overwhelmed, Mara only heard snippets of the steady stream of story. It was mostly political. One Rebellion…two leaders…a conflict…a split. A small band of disgruntled freedom fighters following his leadership. A private war, too limited by numbers and resources to be at all effective. Support by secret backers like Moff Fortee, Garmonsaw’s father, but not enough. Frustration…and then the change. Then Melgida, the woman without a past who seemed to know everything. Melgida and her plan. Melgida and her name for them, the identity she brought. _Ixiltá._ Righteous Judgment. They had a name; one day they would have the power to make that name known…

Seemingly irrelevant to her own life, seemingly unconnected to each other, Mara sensed a vein of dark meaning that ran through them all. The closer the stories drew to Twansa Melgida, the closer she came to breaking through. And Mara was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. Every story would fuse in the end…into her inevitable destiny.

She had a strong conviction that it would _stink_. 

At some point the voice changed. Mara was not sure when Halla’s voice drummed incessantly at her skull and not Iblis. One by one the painful facts branded themselves, white-hot, to her mind. Of their own accord they ordered themselves in a neat bulleted list to torture her with their plainness.

_He had a Hand before you_

_She was loyal to him, as you are_

_She trusted him, as you did_

_He lied to you when he said you were unique_

_He spoke and she heard his voice across the galaxy_

_He found you_

_He betrayed her_

_He tried to kill her_

_He thought he succeeded_

_He raised you, his newer, younger Halla_

_He will find another not so long from now_

_He will try to kill you_

“Will he succeed?”

It took Mara a moment to realize that Halla asked the question and not herself. She looked into that disfigured face, stretched and twisted by the flames of that failed assassination attempt.

“No,” she answered hoarsely, and realized she was crying. “No.”

“What do you want of me?”

Vader seemed to have been waiting for the question. Something like a sigh contorted the vocals of his respirator.

“I want you to help me destroy Palpatine. And after that…after that I want you to leave this planet and never return. Padmé’s blood is in you. I will not make the same mistake twice, nephew. For two years I have taught you what you need to know to escape. For two years I have kept myself from attachment, so when you left I would not stay you. Now it is time. You are already damaged, child. I will not allow a piece of her to be destroyed again. Lend your skills to this one task and you have my word that I will never ask them again.”

Luke’s stomach suddenly flipped completely over. Coppery fear rushed into his mouth, paralyzed his limbs, tingled in his fingers and toes. “You’re going to need my help sooner than you thought…Uncle,” he whispered.

Just below them, a presence unveiled itself. Luke could hear the cackle of glee in his mind.

The trapdoor rattled.

Time had just run out.

Chapter Twelve

Countess Claria was a perfect lady.

She was also dead.

With a crash that no one ever heard, the lovely noblewoman and every other alter ego in Mara Jade’s arsenal shattered and faded away. There was no more Emperor’s Hand. No more assassinations in the dead of night. No more voice spanning lightyears to command her. No more sickly warmth from robed fingertips, no more training, no more missions. There was only Mara Jade.

Drained of both emotion and life-purpose, she waited for Twansa Melgida to speak and fill her once more. Her hands were folded in her lap. The binders lay at her feet, discarded and unnecessary. She was not sure who removed them, or when. It was immaterial. Escape did not occur to her; Mara’s world had undergone a paradigm shift. ‘Escape’ no longer had any meaning.

She locked eyes with Twansa Melgida. The gleam of victory in those ebony eyes neither excited her curiosity nor incensed her as it had in the past. The former senator had won, but so had Mara. They were on the same side now. Only the last piece of the puzzled remained to complete the topography of Mara’s new existence, and that was all she cared about. The final story.

Boroma Twansa Melgida cleared her throat

“It may interest you to know that I am not precisely human.”

“I have foreseen this betrayal, my treacherous servants. You cannot hope to survive.”

Palpatine’s form was indistinct in the dimness, but his voice carried to them across the tower with a ghostly echo, sibilant and clear.

“ _Damn,_ ” Luke muttered. “Don’t bring your lightsaber, you said. Good going, Uncle Darth.”

“It was an error in judgment,” the Sith conceded. Luke snorted.

“That’s one way of putting it. What do we…”

The ability to speak was expelled from his lungs in one swift, sharp gasp. Dimly, Luke felt Vader shaking him, saw Palpatine advancing with a glowing red blade, felt Vader release him and draw a saber of his own. But only from far away, through the haze of pain and his suddenly foggy consciousness.

The Emperor had begun his final assault.

With a last glance at the outside world, Luke dove beneath his deepest shields and waited.

“Not human?”

“No.” Melgida leaned forward, so close that their faces nearly touched. “Look at my eyes.”

Mara looked, and twitched in surprise. She had always thought Twansa’s eyes were so dark that the demarcation between pupil and iris was indistinguishable from a distance. Actually, there was no demarcation. Melgida had two large pupils and that was all.

The tall woman drew back. “I am one of a baseline humanoid species known as Sa’ahgra. Known to ourselves, that is. Most of us have passed ourselves off as humans since our homeworld was made uninhabitable two centuries years ago. Besides the eyes, the main difference between you and I is longevity. I am one hundred and eighty years old. If I die of natural causes, I might live for another hundred. However, I doubt that will be the case. It’s not healthy to make as many enemies as I have.”

Mara stared. _One hundred and e_ _ighty_? “You’re quite well-preserved,” she remarked. That was an understatement of gross proportions. Twansa Melgida didn’t look a day over forty. Not a single strand of white spun through her cropped black hair, and her face was smooth and unlined. Melgida grinned, flashing bright white teeth.

“I have a good skin care regimen.”

“I bet you do.” Mara shook herself. The implications of this were staggering, and here she was discussing…moisturizer. “That’s how you know everything, right? You were there when it all began. The secrets.”

“Yes.” A distant look crept into Melgida’s eyes, softening them. “When the Republic was young and strong and the Jedi thrived, I was also young and strong—and a Jedi. You cannot imagine, Mara Jade…you were born into such a cynical world. Mine was much brighter and far more innocent. I was gifted, I was happy; I was in love with the galaxy, with life, with my sacred duty as a Jedi…and most of all, _him._ ”

This was an interesting revelation. “Who?” Mara asked curiously. Melgida’s eyes clouded, swirled with an unreadable expression and hardened once more.

“Xanatos.” She whispered the name, lingering on the syllables. “My beautiful human man.”

_You won’t win!_ Luke called out as hairline cracks skittered over his shields. Strong as they were, he knew they would not resist the battering of Palpatine’s power much longer. _Vader’s out there, and he’s not trying to steal a body. You’re physically vulnerable to him._

Palpatine’s grating chortle echoed in through the widening gaps.

_Lord Vader is otherwise engaged. My apprentice has arrived._

This was news to Luke. _You’ve got another one? Geez, Palpatine. You should know by now that these Sith people don’t work out very well._

There was a sickening snap, a moment of absolute stillness, and then a roar as the last of his shields tore apart. Two giant eyes of red flame loomed over the battlefield of Luke’s mind. Above them, black clouds began to boil.

_Darth Kassus,_ a demonic voice thundered, _is more powerful than Vader ever was. A pity you’ll never meet. You would have gotten along so well…after all, you share the same father._

Threads of air began to gather around Luke, whirling faster and faster until he was encased in a pillar of tearing wind. Pain shot down from his face in a bright, searing sensation; he reached up a hand and brought it away bloody. His skin had begun to break in a fine network of oozing slits. Slowly the web of blood spread down his neck, his chest, his arms, his legs. Luke stumbled; gasped for breath; choked. The skin inside his mouth and throat had begun to split, too, and the rush of blood blocked his airways. Again and again he spat, only to feel the warm, salty liquid rise again. He would drown in a windstorm.

At some point in the battle, Palpatine’s words gained enough meaning for Luke to entertain vague curiosity beside the pain.

_You made one of my siblings a Sith Lord?_ His words gurgled out incoherently, but the red eyes blazed with gruesome delight.

_Yes, young Luke…from a certain point of view._

“What happened?” Mara knew this story could not have a happy ending. The former senator looked away.

“He turned,” she answered, almost too quietly for Mara to hear. “He fell to the dark side of the Force and betrayed us all.” Softly, she recited the story of his descent into evil and eventual death at the hands of another Jedi.

Mara shifted uncomfortably. What did one say to an eighty-year old Jedi-turned-senator-turned-vigilante whose lover from a past era had turned on the ideals of a thousand-year old Order (and Melgida herself) and subsequently fell into a pit of acid?

“I’m…sorry?”

“I was crushed,” Melgida continued as if Mara had not spoken. “All I once believed in seemed dark and uncertain now. I couldn’t go on. Everything about being a Jedi…every detail reminded me of _him_. I couldn’t handle it. I left.

“For nearly thirty years I wandered the galaxy, searching for a meaning to replace the one I’d lost. I fought in the wars. I worked in refugee camps. I wandered, and saw, and formed a character of my own. I learned to respect and treasure the government that preserved the scaffoldings of justice while the Jedi quibbled over what justice is. They were weak, Jade. Weak and corrupted. What happened to my Xanatos was only a symptom of a greater disease.

“When the Jedi Knights fell as I knew they would, I found my life work. A thousand years had softened the Jedi into impotent philosophers who deserved to be phased out. A thousand years had made the Republic perfect. What the galaxy needed was the resurrection of the old government without the old Order. Justice untainted by mercy, freed of twisted Jedi _morals._ ” She spat the word venomously. “So called ‘morals’ caused Xanatos to lose his way. I had finally found mine.”

In the cold, pitiless black eyes staring into hers, Mara found little difference from Palpatine. The main one, she supposed, was that Melgida didn’t appear to have death planned for her.

That was good enough for Mara Jade.

The story was almost finished. Melgida had joined Iblis’ organization shortly after it split from the Rebel Alliance. A few strings were pulled to get her an appointment to the Senate, and her career as a senator began. For ten years she waited and watched for the opportunity to set their plans in motion.

“So we come to you,” Melgida finished. “Mara Jade. A powerful young woman with no family ties and a stunning amount of skill and intelligence. You were the one.”

“Wasn’t Luke ever ‘the one’?”

Melgida regarded her solemnly. “You like him, don’t you?”

Mara opened her mouth to deny it. What a ridiculous…!

_Luke._

Her mouth closed. At the sight of it, something like sadness settled into the lines of Melgida’s face. She sighed. “We thought he was at first. We made a mistake. Vader’s son was lost to us. Regardless of your personal affection for him, you must realize he is irrevocably one of Them now. Mara, he has spent _two years_ under Palpatine’s influence. You heard it from Garmonsaw, you saw it yourself. As much as the Emperor is, as much as Darth Vader is, Luke Skywalker _is_ the Empire. We cannot fight the three of them, Mara. Skywalker grows more powerful every day.”

A hint of the terrible truth crept into Mara’s mind, icy cold and sickening.

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

Melgida stared at her steadily. “You cannot go back now. The point of no return was passed long ago.”

Bitter tears crawled down her cheeks, slowly at first, then faster. “ _No, no, no…_ ”

The room had emptied. They two were alone in the room. Melgida rose to her feet, towering over Mara. She stretched out a hand.

_My destiny’s in that hand,_ Mara thought miserably. _I never thought I would hate it so much._

“Welcome to Ixiltá, Mara Jade. This is your first command: you will leave Coruscant with us; you will help us to destroy the Death Star…

“ _And you will kill Luke Skywalker._ ”

At some point Luke realized he had lost the motor control portions of his brain. Palpatine was using both of their bodies to fight Darth Vader, two lightsabers flashing with Palpatine’s skill and Varewé’s unwilling power. Neither could be very strong at the moment, but with this Darth Kassus the three of them were probably more than a match for Vader. And if Vader died, Palpatine would be free to devote his entire attention to Luke.

He would not win this battle.

Still, Luke clung doggedly to the wrecked surface of his mind. Palpatine’s stormy attack had quite literally shredded his defenses. The skin of his mental self was nothing but a pulpy, bright red mass, and pain had soared into a kind of blank whiteness that Luke supposed was shock. His mind was shutting down. Soon it would collapse altogether, and Palpatine would take over.

_Take that, you bastard,_ he thought upwards, pushing out weakly with the Force. _Not…going…make it smooth._

Shockingly, his feeble strike hit the red eyes squarely and caused Palpatine to scream out in pain.

_Insolent child! You will feel pain before I drive your spirit out of existence._

A familiar chuckle startled them both. Luke raised his ravaged face in confusion, and the fiery red eyes swiveled back and forth, searching for the source of the new voice. So familiar…to both of them, Luke realized. The battle had progressed enough that their thoughts were somewhat melded.

Frighteningly familiar.

 _Excellent, you fools!_ The voice slimed over them both with a fondling touch that sickened. _Excellent. Palpatine, my treacherous apprentice, only stretch a little farther and you will have taken him. Luke, young master, drive him out and then kill him. You have the ability. More preferably still, both of you strain beyond your mortal bonds and die from the effort! How…delectable would that victory be._

_You!_ Luke/Palpatine screamed in recognition. The answering cackle blasted them with a wave of pure evil and the odor of decaying flesh. _Palace_ _to Varewé. Plageuris to Palpatine. Of what significance are names? I am hatred. I am envy. I am the rot that consumes all life. I am the whispering voice that turns brother against brother, nation against nation. I am the liar. I am the betrayer. Just as I have taught you both to hate, to envy, to consume, to tear apart, to lie and betray, so I do to you now. My children…destroy ye one another._

The struggling lump of mind that was both Luke and Palpatine cringed under a shrieking cacophony of laughter. It stretched on for a few searing moments—then stopped. An expectant murk settled around their mind.

Grimly, they faced each other once more.

_Far across the galaxy, an old man stares unblinkingly into the gory light of sunset. His chin trembles slightly; in two years he has aged far more than is natural. His hair has gone pure white. His lines on his face have deepened sharply, and his eyes have sunk far into their sockets._

_The desert winds have not worked on him alone._

_“Leia…”_

_He whispers the name in a cracked, brittle voice devoid of hope and stripped of joy._

_“My sweet Leia. If only I had listened to you…if only I had not…”_

_But the mistakes he made are graved in stone, never to be erased. The mark was made. The choice was sealed in blood. He will never again lay eyes on the person who means the most to him in all the galaxy._

_Obi-Wan Kenobi watches the twin suns dip below the horizon and wonders what sin he committed to warrant a life of such pain._

_“Two Skywalkers I have failed,” he whispers. “Better almost that you died this night, Luke, so I may not ruin you as I ruined your father and sister.”_

_Dusk overtakes the desert. The old man bows his head and goes inside._

Chapter Thirteen

_Mara._

The fading Luke-part in a brilliant mind sensed her first. A fraction of a second later, the other occupant of that mind also felt his Hand’s approach. _No, Mara,_ Luke moaned. _He’ll kill you too._ In a spasm of desperate energy, the boy fought back control of one hand and swung wildly. His fist swished uselessly through the air and within moments he was forced to retreat even further.

 _Don’t you touch her,_ he snarled furiously. Palpatine responded with another gale of ravaging power. Strength nearly gone, Luke watched helplessly as yet another fragment of his personality broke loose and floated into the formless mist of his subconscious. _Be at peace, young Varewé,_ the Emperor soothed. _My hand will not end her._

_Yours will._

Except for the pale columns of moonlight and silent droids, the halls of the palace were empty. A strange quiet settled itself over Mara as she made her way north. Not the emotional cauterization she experienced during missions or the micro-sharp focus of hand-to-hand combat, but simply a silence that went down to the core of her. Mara welcomed it. Somewhere, far away, she could still feel the bubbling of confusion and horror; somewhere the girl she used to be was shuddering with sobs for a might-have-been.

Passing the training salles, a memory pushed at the edges of her serenity. In this room she beat him for the first time and nearly amputated his right index finger. They had to venture out into Coruscant for the services of a private physician—Mara wasn’t eager for her Master’s people to know of her little sparring sessions and Luke agreed wholeheartedly, for whatever reasons of his own. It was his first experience of the city without his handlers. They stopped at a stuffed nausage stand. Mara taught him how to pick a pocket (without the Force). They climbed a tree in a park; she’d never climbed a tree before. She remembered him stretching out along a broad limb, back comfortably settled into the trunk, eyes closed. He looked so different when he was relaxed. Harmless almost; young. She remembered the golden light on his skin, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the smooth long lines of his body against the clear air…She remembered the strange feeling she had, looking at Luke that way…

 _Stop it._ Mara looked away from the room and the memory. She would not think of that. She would think of nothing.

The quiet returned.

By the time she reached the steps of the tower Melgida told her of, Mara was buried so far into herself that she did not react when the door opened and Luke Varewé stepped out.

“Luke Skywalker,” she said calmly.

“Mara Jade,” he returned. There was an odd grate to his voice. Mara studied him, draped in black robes, eyes glowing feverishly and a saber burning in his hand.

“Palpatine made you into what he wanted.”

Luke’s shoulders jerked sharply. “You knew about me all along?”

Mara shook her head, slowly, bitterly. “He kept the real you carefully hidden.”

An expression of bewilderment crossed the boy’s face, quickly suppressed.

“Whatever you know, Hand, your time is finished. You were a fool if you thought our Master was ignorant of your betrayal.” He lifted his lightsaber. Inattentively, Mara called her own blade to her hand and ignited it. The hum of the two blades sounded very loud in the silence of the room and Mara’s mind.

“He used you to get close to me.”

Again, the flash of confusion—and then a leer. “Well, yes, I suppose I am rather close to you right now, but I assure you, my saber will introduce you to a whole new level of close.” And with that, he leapt at her.

Mara Jade had sparred with Luke Varewé many, many times over the past year. Sometimes they fought fast and dirty and sometimes with a slow grace that was almost a dance, but however they fought, she could always remember it later. An archive of perfect holograms shimmering with crisply defined motions lived in her mind. From this cache, layer on layer of parry and lunge and riposte, she learned Luke. His strengths. His vulnerabilities. His style. How she could win, and when she would always lose. Tonight—tonight was something entirely different.

It was only a few moments before Mara realized that Luke’s form had literally been destroyed and rebuilt overnight. He was something else. Something she was unprepared for, and could only attack with a basic knowledge of swordsmanship and a blast of sudden adrenalin. Later, she would remember none of how she actually fought. Only the sense of time tearing itself apart as he pushed her with inhuman speed and slowed down her world with the realization of her imminent death.

And then there was the opening.

There was no time to think. A few quick, wild strokes, a faint hiss of boiling flesh, and it was done. Luke slumped to the floor, blue eyes wide.

Dead.

Mara stepped back. Methodically, she powered down her saber and clipped it onto her belt. Sweat was pouring into her eyes. Her breath came in fast, harsh gulps.

“My god,” she said wonderingly. “I killed you.”

_“Leia! Are you all right?”_

_A dark-haired girl with a round face and rounder stomach grabs the corner of the countertop; closes her eyes; breaths deeply. It’s worse this time. It has never been this bad before, not even with her first miscarriage. Black spots explode against her eyelids. The pressure is incredible. Since she was fifteen years old, Leia has lived with the sensation that her skin is too fragile to contain her, that a strange mass of energy is packed into every hollow between every bone and organ and demands release. Demands to tear her frame apart. But the headaches are even worse._

_“Leia, darling.” Biggs reaches her side and steadies her, blank terror on his face. “Is it the headache? Are you losing the baby?”_

_Mutely, she twitches her head ‘no’. Even that small motion sends a kaleidoscope of agony spinning through her temples. No. This is different. The same…but different. She will not lose unborn Ilse._

_What, then, did she lose?_

Forgive, me, Anakin. _The old man whispers it to an audience of silent dust motes._ Ah, padawan. It will all be over soon.

Please forgive me…

Vader knew the child of Padmé’s blood was dead the moment it happened. A fiery, thick black tar of rage began to churn in his heart. This warped human being, this monster had destroyed another Naberrie. By all the gods of Tattooine Palatine would die. Luke might be gone, but his usurper and murderer would follow him into the afterlife on this night.

A keening wail in the Force drew his attention briefly from his own rage.

_Luke…_

This sorrow that was acidic and self-inflicting, this grief that tore and maimed…he knew this. He had felt it when his mother’s eyes closed for the last time. It wracked him through his armor of mania when Padmé fell on fiery Mustafar. The distilled torment of a guilty soul created a signature in the Force that was unmistakable.

The personality was nearly overpowered by the pain, but Vader caught the traces with some surprise. It was the Hand. The girl who Luke had made close.

There was a moment of dull awareness when her mind touched his.

 _He’s dead._ She spoke not to him precisely, but to the Force itself in a question and damning answer all in one.

 _Yes._ Vader felt the anger once more. _He is dead, and Palpatine lives._

_I came to kill him. My friend._

Vader felt it all at once: fury, regretful gratitude, an echo of empathy, and…something else. Something was not right here. Something was missing. The fury gave him a burst of energy and he beat the two lightsabers back with renewed energy as he struggled within.

_Explain, Hand._

Her presence drew closer, confused.

_I have betrayed my master. I came to kill Luke because Palpatine had turned him. All those months, and I never knew…gods help me. He’s dead._

And then, the flash of illumination. He knew it. A grim smile twisted Vader’s lips. Perhaps he would live the night out after all. So the Hand had defected. Much… _much_ stranger events were afoot.

_Mara Jade. You are a murderer of something that belonged to me. For that you bear my eternal grudge. But you also bear my thanks. What you killed, has helped me keep alive something far more dear. Luke Varewé._

He did not understand the purity of her silence. The energy wore off, and he was distracted in defending himself. When her mind echoed in his again, it was so light a brush that he barely felt it.

_How can it be?_

_Because it was not Luke. You killed a clone that Palpatine had made his apprentice._

For a long moment, there was nothing—and then, then Mara Jade exploded into the Force with a rocketing joy that burned. The Sith recoiled. He wondered for a moment just what his apprentice had been doing all these months with the Emperor’s Hand.

The next moment, however, he nearly lost his own hand to Varewé’s blade. Jade burst out of the trapdoor to engage the boy and Vader focused on pressing this sudden turning the tides to full advantage.

_Your apprentice has fallen,_ Luke observed. Palpatine did not answer. Occupying two bodies, he pouring all his focus into battling Darth Vader. By now Luke hardly merited any attention at all. It was simply a matter of waiting.

Luke had retreated to a part of his mind he hadn’t visited since childhood and was maintaining a last defense. It was a relatively unassailable location, and Palpatine had fallen back from direct assault. Instead, the Sith had cut off his access to the Force. It was slow suffocation, like holding your breath underwater. In good health, and for short periods of time, he supposed he would not notice the loss. But now—now Luke’s only grasp on life was the energy field that buoyed him up through his master’s raging storm. Without it, the Force within could not flow out and the Force around could flow in to sustain him. This was the end. When Luke lost consciousness this time, he would topple from his fortress and never wake again.

In light of this, he didn’t suppose the loss of the Sith apprentice was a very crushing blow. It made so much sense now. With the essence of himself compressed to such density, life was quickly achieving a peculiar clarity. Palpatine spread out risk among his assets. Darth Vader was one investment. Luke another. This supposed sibling a third. It did matter that Darth Scelerous was dead; Luke’s mind was almost wiped clean for habitation. The Emperor would win.

Other thoughts crystallized in the pure silence of his dying soul. He was not meant for this. There was another Luke, another life that should have been only beginning where his was ending. If only he could live. If he could live, he would fly. He would see all the stars. With that thought came profound regret. With others, there was none. Jade. They had become friends. He was glad for Jade. Glad for Garmonsaw. Glad—for Vader, even. With these people he had shared a bond through dark times. But…but.

They were not family.

With that thought, a ring of blankness closed around Luke’s vision. _Family,_ he mused. _Mothers and fathers. Brothers and sisters. If only they could have loved me._

Slowly, gently, like leaf in the wind, Luke began to fall.

It was only in the thickening fog of semi-consciousness that he realized he was fighting Mara Jade.

This time, Mara battled the Luke she knew. The Luke she could overcome. Palpatine’s shock was evident in the Force as she parried his every blow. In this form, her master could only use the skill and power of his host. And Mara was intimately familiar with the fighting form of this particular host.

Defeating that other Luke had pushed her nearly past sanity and into a place of straight lines and razor-thin perception. She fought with an exactness, an economy of motion she had never achieved before and likely never would again. It would not last; already in the harsh sweet backwash of her joy Mara could feel her sharpness slipping away. But it would last long enough. Palpatine was weak. He was not using the full power of Luke’s body.

The clone-Luke Mara beat with luck. Varewé she beat because there was no other outcome. After gaining a hard-won but inevitable upper hand, she maneuvered him to the center of the tower—directly into raised edge of the trap door. He tumbled backwards. His eyes, yellow with Palpatine’s infestation, momentarily flickered blue as the Sith lost control. Mara’s breath choked as she relived that other death, still raw and present in her mind.

_Come out. I know you’re here._

_I wasn’t hiding._

_You make me…lose myself._

_Maybe I like you where you are._

In that moment, Mara saw how to save him.

She loved him.

They had no past as lovers, only friendship. There would be no future. But in right now, in this moment, Mara Jade loved Luke Skywalker enough for all time.

Enough to face her death at his hands.

With a flick of her wrist, the saber spun into the darkness, over the tower’s edge and out of reach. Luke’s stained eyes widened in disbelief. She held out her hands, empty before him.

“I won’t kill you,” she said simply. “I refuse to do what is right and what I must.”

In a blur of motion Luke lunged up and delivered an incredible blow to her abdomen. There was a crack as a rib broke. She fell to her knees in a haze of agony, every vestige of air forced from her body. He kicked her again, harder. She recognized the efficiency to his viciousness. There would be no more taunting. Palpatine could not afford for her to live any longer.

Not Palpatine, though, Mara realized a second later. Luke had grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked her head backward, a vibroblade appearing in one hand. His face swam into focus—and the tears of pain coursing down Mara’s face streamed into sorrow. There was no longer Luke and Palpatine in the mind of the boy. He was both. She gazed into clear blue eyes with a network of golden tendrils that was perversely homogenous.

The blade touched her throat. She closed her eyes.

“Why?”

The voice was cracked and pale. Mara’s eyes flew open. It was only Luke who spoke. A second later, his face contorted in a rictus of rage, and he was gone. But somewhere he could hear her. Somewhere he had to be listening.

“Because,” she said, meeting his horrible eyes through a veil of tears and blood. “I love you.”

The storm died abruptly. Palpatine looked about his tattered kingdom, taken aback.

_What is happening…_

Ashes moved soundlessly under his feet. Flowing in streams and columns unshaped by wind, the particles of soul began to contract.

_No!_

Wildly, the Sith grasped for the web of lighting and turbulence, for the darkness that had been his scepter and his yoke for years and years. But it had fled from this sudden vacuum.

_She loves me._

The whisper echoed from everywhere and nowhere, barely a noise.

_She loves me._

_I have won! You are mine, boy! You have always been_ MINE!

_Ahhhh…_

There was a deep, tremulous sigh that reverberated through the ground. Palpatine fell back; paled. The monstrous red light surrounding him dulled in fear.

_Loves._

It was the last thought Luke and the Emperor would ever share. In silent majesty, the swirling piles of ash and dust that made up Luke Varewé soared into a massive wave that climbed to the nether regions of the Force. It was a long time in rising. He went very far and saw many things. Once, near the end of his life, he would wonder what would have happened if he had stayed.

But Luke did not stay. He came back—back to live, back to love.

When the gray wave crashed, it swallowed up the speck that was Emperor Palpatine like a stone in the sea.

_Luke opened his eyes._

His first untarnished sight was of his uncle flinging the body of his possessor over the edge of the tower. With an ear-splitting crack and a howl of blue energy, Palpatine’s body impacted with the garden far below. For the first time in a night of profound dark, light erupted as the gardens burst into flame.

It began to rain.

Lord Vader silently escorted Luke and Mara to the medbay, waited to hear the medic pronounce Luke relatively treatable, and then limped off to treat his own wounds. Luke watched him leave. The ominous wheeze of his respirator was audible even after the Sith had left the room. He felt a twinge of sharp worry. Vader would no longer be a part of his life, but the taciturn Sith had helped save it. Two years he’d been saving Luke, preparing him to fend off the ultimate invasion. In the end, it had not been enough, but Luke was forever indebted to his uncle.

“He’ll be all right,” Mara whispered, and squeezed his hand.

“You’re holding my hand,” he observed. They were sitting side by side on his sterile white bed. Mara said nothing. Luke cast a sideways glance at her. Mara was studiously examining the edge of her tunic.

“Back there…” he ventured. “What you said.”

A short nod.

“Was it just for…I guess what I’m asking…How much did you mean it?”

Mara stilled. Unexpectedly, a hot flush singed Luke’s ears. He wished he hadn’t said anything.

And then, the smile. It curled up one corner of her lips, then the other, then stretched out into something joyful and bright and impish all at once—a purely Mara Jade smile.

“Well, Varewé,” she replied, curling up her legs and turning to face him, “I meant it as much as you believed it.”

There was nothing quite to do then but kiss her. Almost in unison with him, Mara leaned forward, tilted her head awkwardly to avoid his nose. She paused, the instant before contact; searched his eyes.

“You were dead.” Her breath was warm in his nostrils. He watched a tear well in the corner of one eye and slowly trickle down. “I killed you.”

Gently but firmly, Luke slipped one hand to the small of her back and cupped the other one to her cheek. “Then you brought me back to life.”

Mara’s green eyes widened—then fluttered closed. Her dark red lashes swept across the paleness of her cheekbones. For a moment Luke couldn’t breathe. He leaned in.

Her lips were so soft.

Hesitantly, she pushed deeper, and he opened and responded and explored with her, every second spiraling up higher into a dizzying ecstasy. Completeness. Perfection. Her fingers traced slow circles across the back of his neck, through his hair. He pressed her body closer to his. The gentle rhythm of it all was unfamiliar to them both, but nothing had ever felt so right to Luke. There had never been anything like this. He wanted it to never end.

When they came up for air, Luke and Mara said _I love you_ at precisely the same moment.

They laughed and kissed again.

Later, nestled together on the bed, Mara felt an unease from Luke and looked down at his face. He was frowning.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered. He exhaled a slow breath that seemed to come from his toes.

“You know…you have to know that I can’t follow you. There’s something I have to do first. I don’t know what, but I’m not the person I was supposed to be. I need to find out who that is.”

Her heart sank. It was true. “I know…”

“But someday, Mara Jade.” He sat up, eyes fierce, jaw clenched. His hands curved around her waist possessively. “Someday I will be my own person, strong enough to take care of myself. On that day I will return for you.”

Mara laughed a little at his intensity. “It won’t be easy to find me.”

“I will.”

She believed him.

Luke fell asleep in her lap, her fingers threaded through his hair. Eventually her neck grew stiff and she eased off the bed, sliding a pillow where her legs had been under his head.

 _I will not see him again for a long time,_ something whispered to her. Part of her rebelled at the thought—most of her did.

But the rest, the part of Mara Jade that had been broken by betrayal and rebuilt by love, that part felt an odd sort of freedom at the realization. Life love is a heavy weight to bear, and neither of them was strong enough or old enough to carry it now. In a few years…in a few years. They could grow up in a few years, grow strong and straight, unbent by the burden of another soul.

“See you around,” Mara whispered. She touched his chin with two fingers; drew them very gently to his lips. “Be well.”

And then she walked away, to her own bed waiting at the safe house, to her own life.

Tonight she would sleep hard and long.

So much waited in the day.

Luke had a dream that night. He dreamed Sola came to him in the medbay and sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his forehead with her hand.

 _Mother,_ he whispered _._

 _My,_ she said wearily _. How big you’ve grown, Luke._

_How are you here? Are you a ghost?_

_I’m a memory, child, dredged up from your own mind to deliver a message._

_Oh. Why couldn’t the sender just give it in person?_

_Because he thought I’d be comforting to you._ She laughed. _He didn’t even realize how wrong he was until now._

 _You never loved me._ Even though he knew it was only animated vapor he spoke to, it wore his mother’s face.

 _No,_ she said kindly _. I never did._

 _Why?_ Against his will he asked, knowing full well that the answer could only bring more pain.

_You already know the answer, or I would have no power to tell you._

_Tell me! Tell me why I wasn’t good enough. Tell me what I did wrong, Mama… Why didn’t you love me?_ He heard himself, but it wasn’t himself. In the dream he had shrunk until he was ten years old again, speaking in the high, shrill voice of the boy she left on the sidewalk.

_Because, dear one, I feared you so. Didn’t you see the terror in my eyes?_

_I was just a child._

_But I never understood you. Not you, and not the strange, powerful forces that brought you into being. Haven’t you learned, my son, that mortals fear what they don’t understand? Even if it’s just a child. Can you blame me for what I am?_

He began to cry. Not a child’s tears; suddenly he was man-sized again, shuddering with the hoarse sobs of adulthood _._

 _Enough,_ Sola said impatiently. The inflections of her voice were slightly altered _. This is not the purpose for which I was sent. You are more powerful than he guessed to exert such control over your own subconscious. I never loved you, Luke. But there is someone out there who does._

_Who?_

_Your sister._

_Anya?_

_Your real sister. The child you shared the womb with, who cried bitterly when they took you from her at birth. Who cries for you still, waking every so often with tears on her face and a mysterious ache in her heart. Leia._

Sola faded…and he saw her. Leia.

She was so beautiful.

Though they looked nothing alike, Luke didn’t doubt and knew he never would. This was his sister. He knew it with a conviction that sang up through his bones, that gloried with recognition and ached with joy.

Leia.

He was not alone in the universe.

There was family. There was Leia.

The apparition morphed into the woman who called herself his mother. Luke felt a sudden stab of anger. How dare she take his sister away?

_Poor little Luke. How I wish I could have given you what you deserve._

_Is it really you saying that, or just my own desire?_

_Your desire, of course. If my opinion counts for anything, though, I think the real Sola felt the same. It’s not too late for family, child. But hurry to find her before time runs out._

_Where?_ he pleaded _. Where do I go?_

When the answer came, the voice was not his mother’s, but a girl’s, soft and high and sweet. She spoke only one word. He wished he could listen forever.

_Tattooine._

Darth Vader also dreamed that night. He woke with dry eyes and even breath; no terror in the universe could wring tears or a gasp from his ravaged body. But it was a very real fear that gave him speed as he searched out his young student in the morning. Fear, rage at himself, and a faint breath of something else, some alien emotion he dared not name. 

When he found what he was looking for, slicing through layers of altered medical files and eighteen-year-old lies, it was already too late. _Hope,_ the Dark Lord thought bitterly as a small vessel receded into the pale morning sky. _Hope would drive me mad again, after all these years. Not a nephew. A son…_

He could have stopped the ship. He could have ringed the perimeter of Coruscant’s atmosphere in minutes. Instead, he reached out with his mind to the pilot with bright hair whose features were too far away to discern. 

_Come back, Luke._

The response was delayed and when it came, it was only a hesitant sense of questioning.

_I know where you are going, boy. I have seen it in your mind. The Jedi way is not what you are looking for, and it is all you will find._

A palpable wall of stubbornness met him. With great effort, the Sith managed to quell his anger. Force was not wise here.

 _Hear me,_ he pleaded. _You are not ready to face Obi-Wan Kenobi. One day you must, but today you are not ready. You must stay and complete your training!_

At this, Luke’s mental presence formed itself into words. The slight exertion lowered his shields a little and Darth Vader caught a glimpse of how wounded his son’s mind truly was. For a second, all other functions were blocked out in a white flash of anger and pain. How _dare_ they. How dare the men who destroyed Anakin Skywalker seek to destroy this innocent child as well.

He missed the first part of what Luke had to say.

_…am finished. The agreement was that I could go now._

_Luke, I did not know all I know now…_

But with a firm mental push, Luke removed Darth Vader from his mind, and then the bright presence was gone, catapulted somewhere into the unreachable grasp of hyperspace.

“My son,” the dark lord whispered hollowly. “My son.”

_I will find you, Luke Skywalker. And when we meet again, I think I will not find it within me to be as selfless._

_I will not lose you again._

_A battered hut sits alone and small in the wastes of the Dune Sea. It is the only feature in miles upon miles of dunes and heat. By all rights, the vicious sand storms should have flattened it long ago. But appearances can be deceiving, and the humble-looking hut has a foundation of steel that keeps it standing. Even when the wind lashes. Even when its color fades under two relentless suns, and the pleasing aspects of its design wear away._

_The hut was built by its lone occupant, and is much like him._

_He stands in the doorway, robes whipping about, head bared. He tilts his face upwards, shields his eyes, squints. Colorful lasers lance across the hot, pale sky, tracing intricate patterns of death. He smiles._

_His trap succeeded._

_The prey is here._

I will be cruel to him, _Obi-Wan thinks distantly._ I will tempt him with the thing he craves and always keep him starving for it. I will never let him have it. I will never let myself love him, and he will never know Leia Darklighter. _The coldness of the realization startles him a little. He thought he would feel…guilt, sorrow, anything but this calm sense of duty._

_“It’s for the galaxy,” he whispers. “For you, precious Leia, so you can live out your short life in peace and happiness. For the child Ilse and the Jedi Order she will found. For you…Anakin. My brother. So you may atone for your sins through him.”_

_It is enough. It is worth the price._

_He will be cruel, and he will not regret it. The old man pulls the hood around his face and goes inside._

Come, little Skywalker. Come so I may strip your soul of darkness and scar you with light. Come to be broken and shaped. Come, so you may become the terrible weapon I require.

Come to me.

The End


End file.
